140  ' 
Long  'Be***  2,  Calif' 


"  Kiltie,  what  is  it?     Name  it  and  it's  yours!  " — I'tii/c  11. 


My    Friend    Bill 


Many  Stories  Told  in  the  Telling  of  One 


BY 

Anson  A.  Gard 


Published  by 

The  Emerson  Press 

149  Broadway 
New    York    City 


Copyright,  1900, 

BY 

ANSON   A.   CARD. 


All  rights  reserved. 


ROBERT   DKUMMOND,    1'RINTRR,   NBW    YORK. 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  writer  of  "My  Friend  Bill"  has  made  no 
attempt  at  a  literary  production,  and  he  trusts  that 
his  readers  will  not  view  his  first  effort  from  any  such 
standpoint.  He  believes  that  a  story  may  contain 
interest  even  though  the  strict  rules  of  literature  are 
not  followed.  To  write  by  rule  is  to  lay  down  a  plan 
and  make  everything  fit  to  that  plan.  "  My  Friend 
Bill  "  is  a  life-story,  and  no  rule  can  be  laid  down  to 
fit  a  life.  Each  day  brings  forth  a  change,  and  the 
rules  of  yesterday  may  be  broken  by  the  happenings 
of  to-day.  "  My  Friend  Bill  "  is  a  human  story,  in 
which  the  heart  rather  than  the  intellect  guided  the 
pen.  That  which  pleases  the  intellect  is  a  passing 
pleasure — that  which  touches  the  heart  is  a  lasting 
impression. 

The  author  has  a  kindly  feeling  for  all  those  who 
see  only  the  seamy  side  of  life,  and  no  patience  with 
those  whose  selfishness  would  crush  the  hopes  and 
ambitions  of  the  "  under  man." 

In  the  asides  of  his  story  he  has  tried  to  show  up 
the  shams  and  fallacies  of  the  day  in  their  true  light, 
and  has  aimed  to  prove  that  true  happiness  is  only 
found  in  doing  justice  to  our  fellows.  The  piling  up 

iii 

1.711379 


JV  INTRODUCTION. 

of  riches  for  the  sake  of  riches,  and  the  gaining  of 
honors  that  vanity  may  be  appeased,  never  bring  hap 
piness,  while  generous  treatment  is  ever  followed  by 
contentment. 

His  casual  characters  are  known  only  by  their  call 
ing  or  occupation — a  name  means  nothing,  and  is   un 
necessary.      The  reader  of  a  story  is  like  one  in  a  pro 
miscuous  company — he  cares  not  to  have  each  indi- 
^vidual  introduced  to  him. 

While  many  an  author,  who  aims  to  follow  literary 
rules  to  the  letter,  will  devote  pages  to  dry  argument 
that  nobody  cares  to  read,  the  author  of  this  volume 
has  aimed  to  give,  instead,  some  character-sketch  or 
incident  of  human  interest.  In  this  he  may,  at  times, 
have  failed,  or  may  even  have  failed  in  his  main  story, 
but  he  trusts  that  when  you  have  reached  the  end, 
you  will  lay  aside  the  book  with  a  pleasant : 

"HE  IS   MY  FRIEND,   TOO!" 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

Chapter  I.— Bill  Starts  for  New  York  City— Sam  Wiggins' 

City  Wife 1 

Chapter  II. — The  Leigh  tons  Leave  Highmont — Charles 

Leighton's  History 6 

Chapter  III.- — Ruben  Goes  to  the  City  to  Visit  His  Friend 

Bill  11 

Chapter  IV. — Ruben  in  New  York  Without  Bill's  address — 
He  Is  Driven  in  a  Cab  the  Full  Length  of  Fifth  Ave 
nue  Hunting  for  Fifth  Avenue — He  Meets  Many 
Sociable  People,  Among  the  Number  a  Great  After 
Dinner  Speaker,  to  Whom  He  Tells  Country  Stories 
— The  Hunter — He  Advertises  for  "A  Quiet  Boarding 
Place"  16 

Chapter  V.- — "Ruben  Starts  an  Endless  Chain" — He  Finds 
a  Typical  New  York  Boarding  House,  at  Which  He 
Meets  the  Statesman,  the  Heathen,  the  Actor  and  the 
Man  with  the  Red  Whi'skers — All  Attempts  at  "Guy 
ing"  Ruben  Fail 25 

Chaper  VI. — Ruben  Tells  the  Story  of  His  First  Turkey 
Shooting  Match — The  Boarders  Try  to  Make  Rube  an 
After  Dinner  Speaker — The  Country  Boy  and  the 
City  Boy  Compared — The  Country  Preacher — The 
Country  Teacher — The  "Hired  Hand" — -Dennis  and 
His  Story  of  the  "Cat  Burd"— Old  Mike  and  the  Giant 
"Brandy" — Jake  from  Holland,  Story — The  "Hired 
Girl"  and  Her  Witch  Stories 29 

Chapter  VII. — The  Biographer  Tells  of  the  Boys  from  the 
Valley  of  Virginia — The  "Merchant  Prince" — The 
Smart  Young  Doctor 37 

Chapter  VIII. — Ruben  on  the  Bowery — He  Visits  the  Mu 
seums,  Where  He  Wrestles  with  Prof.  Throwem — 
Ruben  Helps  the  Poor  Young  Man — The  Medal  Man..  40 

Chapter  IX. — The  Bald  Headed  Broker  Gives  Ruben  Much 
Good  Advice  and  Tells  Him  Many  Stories  of  His  Own 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

Page. 
Experience  of  Playing  Philanthropist 47 

Chapter  X. — The  B.  M.  Broker  Philosophizes  in  a  Quaint 
Way — The  Actor  Takes  Ruben  to  the  Theatre  and 
"Explains"  the  Play 52 

Chapter  XI. — Mr.  Knickerbocker  on  "The  Society  of  To 
day" — The  Man  from  Lunnon  and  His  "Impressions 
of  America" — Snobs  of  the  Suburbs — The  Indian; 
Pension  Story  55 

Chapter  XII. — Mrs.  Crowley— The  Man  Who  Tells  of  the 
Excellence  of  Others — The  Inventor — The  Author. . . . 

Chapter  XIII. — Ruben  Turns  Reporter  and  Goes  to  See  the 

Editor  with  a  Story,  but  Fares  Badly 64 

Chapter  XIV. — Ruben  Visits  the  Club  and  "Boxes"  with  the 

"Meek  Young   Man" 67 

Chapter  XV. — Ze  Frenchman  and  ze  Forchunes 71 

Chapter  XVI. — The  Anarchist  Gives  His  Views 75 

Chapter  XVII.— The  Anarchist's  Pathetic  Story  of  the  Death 

of   Little   Edith 78 

Chapter  XVIII. — Ruben  Surprised  at  the  Way  that  Jus 
tice  ( ?)  Is  Meted  Out  in  the  City 83 

Chapter  XIX.— The  Anarchist  Tells  Ruben  All  About  Coun 
try  Politics 86 

Chapter  XX. — Ruben  Goes  to  Church  and  Helps  Sing— The 

Heathen  Discourses  on  the  Coldness  of  City  Churches  93 

Chapter  XXI. — Ruben  Saves  the  Life  of  a  Little  Girl,  the 
Child  of  a  Millionaire,  Gets  His  Leg  Broken  and  Is 
Sent  to  the  Hospital,  Where  He  Is  Visited  by  Edward 
S.  DeHertburn,  Brother  of  Little  Helen 98 

Chapter  XXII. — Helen  brings  flowers  to  Ruben  and  Charms 

Him  with  Her  Child  Talk 103 

Chapter  XXIII. — Ruben  Hears  from  Home,  Where  They 
Thought  He  Had  Been  Lost — The  Country  Maidens 
and  the  "Lone  Widows" — Helen  and  Dr.  Whipple. .  .106 

Chapter  XXIV.— Edward  Tells  Ruben  of  His  Travels  in 
Egypt,  Where  He  Had  Met,  in  a  Newly  Discovered 
Tomb,  a  Beautiful  Lady,  Whose  Face  Has  Ever  Been 
Before  Him 109 

Chapter  XXV. — Ruben  Recites  to  Beatrice  and  Helen  His 

Poem— Some  Deed  of  Worth 118 

Chapter  XXVI.— Ruben   Tells   Edward   of  His   First   Love 


CONTENTS.  vii 

Page. 
Affair    123 

Chapter  XXVII. — Edward,  Beatrice  and  Helen  Drive  with 

Ruben  Through  Central  Park 126 

Chapter  XXVIII. — "Tousm  Wallie"  Returns  from  Europe 
and  Calls  on  Ruben  at  the  Hospital,  with  Beatrice 
and  Helen — Strange  Denouement — "Tousin  Wallie" 
of  Whom  Helen  Had  Continually  talked,  Turns  Out 
to  be  Ruben's  Friend  Bill 132 

Chapter  XXIX.— Ruben  and  Bill  Talk  of  the  Old  Home  and 
Its  People — John  Woodman;  "Aunt  Rachal"  and  Her 
Gift  of  the  "Old  Barren  Farm" 137 

Chapter  XXX.— Bill  Tells  of  His  Meeting  With  the  De 
Hertberns — City  Boys  in  the  Country — Edward  Offers 
to  Educate  Ruben  in  the  Law — Ruben  Refuses — City 
Charities  (?)  140 

Chapter  XXXI. — The  Far  Reaching  Effect  of  a  Story— Mr. 

DeHertbern  and  the  Trust 150 

Chapter  XXXII. — Ruben  ife  Invited  by  the  Great  Man  (the 
one  he  had  met  on  Fifth  Avenue)  to  a  Dinner  Given 
by  the  Hilarious  Sons  of  Kamskatka — He  Goes  and 
Makes  His  First  After  Dinner  Speech,  Amid  Ap 
plause — Helen  Pleads  With  Ruben  to  Stay  in  New 
York  and  Be  a  Lawyer 153 

Chapter  XXXIII. — Edward  Hears  From  Professor  Blake  in 

Milan,  Italy—Edward  Sails  for  Milan 165 

Chapter  XXXIV. — Mr.  DeHertbern  Insists  on  Loaning 
Ruben  Money  to  Educate  Himself  in  the  Law — Ruben 
Refuses  169 

Chapter  XXXV.— The  Shylock— Ruben  Receives  Wonderful 
News  from  Home — Oil  Has  Been  Found  on  Aunt 
Rachael's  Barren  Old  Farm 175 

Chapter  XXXVI. — Ruben  Returns  to  Highmont — Shylock 
Sues  His  Father  for  Money  Loaned — The  Trial  in 
Which  Ruben  Makes  a  Great  Speech  and  Wins  the 
Suit — The  Poor  Widow  and  Her  Lost  Maggie— Mr.  De 
Hertbern  Buys  the  Barren  Old  Farm — Ruben,  Now  a 
Rich  Young  Man,  Returns  to  New  York  to  Study 
Law 180 

Chapter  XXXVII. — Edward  Reaches  Milan  and  with  Count 
Drasco  Prepares  to  go  as  Minstrels  to  Rescue  a 


viii  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Maiden,  Held  for  a  Ransom  by  Bandife 192 

Chapter  XXXVIIL— Edward  Reported  Slain  by  Bandits — 
He  and  the  Count  Imprisoned  in  a  Wine  Cellar  at 

Lecco — They  are   Released 1 9& 

Chapter  XXXIX.— The  Gala  Night  in  the  Hamlet  near  Ban 
dit  Camp — Edward    and   the   Count  Meet  the   Giant 
Leader  Amabilli — The  Dead  Young  Man  in  the  Shed. 210 
Chapter  XL. — Fulco  and  Barrone  Plot  to  Poison  the  Two 

Minstrels,  Who  are  Thought  to  Be  Spies 217 

Chapter  XLI. — The  Minstrels  are  Taken  to  the  Camp  of  the 

Bandits  to  Sing  for  the  Captive  Maiden 221 

Chapter  XLII. — Edward  Improvises  and  Sings  the  Plan  of 

Escape   228 

Chapter    XLIIL— The    Escape    and    Sword     Duel— Bandit 

Leaders  Slain    232 

Chapter  XLIV. — The  Two  Counsellors  Plan  to  Get  Ransom. 239 
Chapter    XLV. — Two    Dark    Figures    Intercept   Them    with 
Blows   from   Heavy    Sticks — The   Maiden,   Anita  Al- 

leyn,  Returned   to  Her  Parents 247 

Chapter  XLVL— Anita,  the  Betrothed  of  Another,  Danger 
ously  111  254 

Chapter  XLVII. — Anita  Recovers — Old   Lord   Leighton   Al- 

leyn's  Will    265 

Chapter  XLVIII. — Anita  Has  a  Mystery  Solved  in  Strange 

Letter  from  America   269 

Chapter  XLIX.— The  Great   DeHertbern  Reception 276 

Chapter  L—  The  Dance  in  the  Barn 280 

Chapter  LI. — Tom,  the  Anarchist,  Has  Much  to  Say  on 
Wrong  Systems,  Unneeded  Laws— Suggests  Many 
Needed  Changes — Takes  Up  the  Cause  of  the  Under 
paid  Teachers — He  Suggests  a  Great  Leader 288 

Chapter  LII. — Tom  Continues  His  Criticisms  on  Our  Cus 
toms  and  Evils 299 

Chapter  LIII.— Maggie's  Story 304 

Chapter  LIV.— Ruben  and  the  "Hunter" 309 

Chapter  LV.— The  Celebration  Man 315 

Chapter  LVI. — Ruben  Goes  to  the  Assembly,  Where  His  Ad 
miration  for  Lawmaker^  Becomes  Nil 319 

Chapter  LVIL— Helen  the  Grown  Lady 325 

Chapter  LVIII—  "Mister  Ruben"  Again 331 


MY  FRIEND  BILL 


CHAPTER   I. 

We  felt  that  the  turn  in  the  road  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill 
had  shut  out  forever  the  Bill  ivc  had  knoiwn  from 
childhood! 

Always  when  Bill  came  home  on  his  summer  vacations 
he  seemed  so  different  from  the  green  country  hoy  who 
had  left  Highmont  for  the  great  city  of  New  York. 

He  was  changed  in  so  many  ways  that  I  cannot  describe 
them.  He  did  not  exactly  put  on  "airs,"  but  the  "airs" 
were  on  him  just  the  same.  He  did,  'however,  emphasize 
the  fact  that  he  lived  on  Fifth  avenue.  Now,  to  us  boys, 
who  had  never  seen  New  York,  and,  for  that  matter,  any 
other  place  than  our  own  little  village  of  two  hundred 
people,  situated  far  back  in  the  mountains  of  Pennsyl 
vania,  Fifth  avenue  was  a  greater  place  than  a  city  itself, 
where  only  the  millionaires  had  their  palaces.  He  did  not 
just  say  that  he  was  better  than  we  home  boys,  but  you 
could  tell  by  his  every  movement  that  he  thought  so;  and 
somehow  his  living  on  Fifth  avenue,  or,  as  Bill  called  it, 
"The  Ahvnu,"  we  accorded  him  a  position  on  a  little 
higher  plane,  and  he  saw  it  and  used  it  against  us. 

Then,  his  dress  was  different.  His  neckties  were  nat 
tier.  His  hat  had  a  narrow  brim,  with  a  colored  band ; 


2  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

his  shoes  were  pointed,  and  on  occasion  he  wore  gloves 
and  carried  a  cane.  Although  he  had  always  prided  him 
self  on  his  good  eyesight,  his  later  homecomings  were 
marked  with  gold  spectacles  held  on  with  a  chain.  In 
short,  his  whole  make-up  was  the  opposite  of  the  roughly 
dressed  Bill  who  had  started  away  to  seek  his  fortune  in 
the  far-off  city. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  morning  Bill  left  Highmont. 
It  \vas  an  event  we  had  talked  of  arid  looked  forward  to 
for  months.  We  thought  of  his  departure  as  though  he 
were  going  out  into  an  entirely  new  world.  We  knew  of 
New  York  only  as  we  had  read  of  it.  We  could  not 
compare  it,  as  we  had  never  seen  anything  with  wrhich  to 
compare  it.  Somebody  had  told  us  that  it  was  a  great 
scope  of  flat  country  with  houses  built  all  over  it  and 
rivers  all  around  it.  This  conveyed  no  notion  to  our 
minds,  for  wre  had  never  even  seen  a  flat  country  or  a 
stream  larger  than  the  "crick"  that  ran  at  the  edge  of  the 
village,  with  here  and  there  a  place  deep  enough  for  a 
"swimming  hole."  Our  impressions  of  the  outside  wrorld 
cannot  be  conveyed  by  tongue  or  pen  to  any  one  save  to 
him  who  has  seen  only  one  place,  and  that  a  rough, 
mountainous  country,  shut  away  from  the  world  as  by  a 
great  wall. 

Bill  had  often  said  he  knew  he  would  miss  our  "singing 
school,"  "spelling  matches,"  "corn  huskings"  and  kindred 
gatherings  for  the  young  people  from  far  and  near.  We 
knew,  however,  what  he  would  miss  more  than  all  these — 
his  Sunday  nights  with  Anita.  Bill  never  missed  church 
Sunday  night.  He  was  one  of  the  few  boys  at  Highmont 
wrho  was  brave  enough  to  start  at  the  church  door  with 
his  girl  and  run  the  gauntlet,  w^hich  gauntlet  always  had 
much  to  say  to  the  boy  who  passed  down  between. 

But  I  started  to  tell  of  the  morning  Bill  left  Highmont. 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  3 

We  had  all  gathered  down  at  Uncle  Dave  Carter's  tavcin, 
where  the  stage  coach  stopped,  to  see  him  off.  He  was 
so  late  we  were  sure  he  would  be  left  behind,  but  bye-and- 
bye  we  saw  him  and  Anita  coming  down  the  one  street  of 
the  village  holding  hands.  They  walked  slowly,  as 
though  loath  to  part.  Anita  seemed  to  have  a  premoni 
tion  that  it  was  the  last  time  she  would  ever  see  him 
as  her  lover.  We  watched  the  stage  coach  as  far  as  we 
could  see  it,  and  when  it  reached  the  turn,  away  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill,  at  the  bridge,  we  all  went  our  several 
ways.  No  one  spoke  a  word.  We  felt  that  the  turn  in 
the  road  had  shut  out  forever  the  Bill  we  had  known  from 
childhood.  And  we  were  right.  We  never  again  saw  him 
as  we  had  known  him.  He  may  have  been  improved, 
but  the  childhood  affection  never  returned.  Anita's 
premonition  became  a  reality,  as,  when  he  came  home  on 
his  first  vacation,  he  treated  her  with  scant  courtesy  in 
return  for  her  year's  faithfulness  to  his  memory.  He  told 
his  mother  that  Anita  was  too  quiet,  or,  as  he  said,  to  the 
complete  shocking  of  the  dear  lady :  "She's  too  derned 
bashful  for  me,  see?"  His  mother's  eyesight  being  most 
excellent  for  one  of  her  age,  she  said  she  saw,  but  was 
pained  to  hear  him  swear  so  violently  about  it.  "Besides, 
my  dear  son,  why  should  you  so  soon  forget  Anita?  She 
is  sweet  and  modest,  and  of  the  best  family  in  the  village. 
T  had  looked  forward  to  your  home-coming  almost  as 
much  for  her  sake  as  for  my  own.  Often  in  the  twilight 
she  and  T  have  sat  and  talked  of  you  and  wondered  if  you 
would  be  much  changed.  Little  she  thought  to  find  in 
you  coldness  where  she  expected  love — the  same  love  you 
had  promised  when  you  said  good-by  a  year  ago.  My 
son,  you  will  some  time  regret  this  step!" 

"Now,  mother."  said  Bill,  rather  irritated  at  her  long 
speech,  "you  know  I  expect  to  make  my  home  in  New 


4  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

York.  Anita  may  be  good  enough  for  Highmont,  but  I 
want  a  wife  that  1  will  be  proud  of.  How  do  you  think 
1  should  feel  to  have  her  come  down  to  the  office?  The 
boys  would  never  end  with  their  guying  me  and  my 
'mountain  lassie.' ''' 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  'guying,'  but  I  do 
know  that  the  man  who  is  fortunate  enough  to  take  Anita 
as  a  wife  will  never  be  ashamed  to  present  her  to  his 
friends." 

"Mother,  you  are  prejudiced.  You  have  never  seen 
a  real  city  lady,  and  think  that  because  you  love  Anita, 
and  because  she  is  the  best  in  this  little  mountain  village, 
that  she  would  be  a  lady  in  the  city."  Bill  was  almost 
rude  in  his  manner  toward  his  dear  mother,  but  she,  in 
her  gentle  way,  softly  replied :  "I  may  not  have  seen 
what  you  call  a  'city  lady/  but  I  do  know  that  a  true  and 
loving  heart  is  to  be  preferred  in  a  wife  rather  than  the 
polished  manners  which  so  often  clothe  a  heartless 
woman.  You  should  marry  a  wife  for  the  home  rather 
than  for  the  drawing-room.  A  woman  may  easily  change 
her  habit  of  dress,  may  acquire  fine  manners,  but  the 
heart  will  seldom  change.  Choose  first  a  gentle  nature, 
which  indicates  a  kind  heart;  then  consider  the  face. 
Anita  has  both  the  heart  and  attractive  face.  Change  in 
her  manner  of  dress  will  easily  follow,  for  the  woman 
has  never  yet  been  found  who  will  refuse  pretty  things,  if 
her  husband's  means  admit  of  them  and  his  wishes  call  for 
them." 

"Mother,"  concluded  Rill,  "you  cannot  appreciate  my 
feelings  on  this  subject.  I  do  not  wish  to  go  contrary  to 
what  you  would  have  me  flo,  but  I  cannot  see  in  Anita  that 
which  I  would  choose  in  a  wife." 

As  Bill  talked  about  the  city  ladies  and  their  "polished 
manners"  I  couldn't  help  thinking  of  Sam  Wiggins'  fine 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  5 

city  wife.  Sam  had  been  a  great  beau  among  all  the  girls 
over  the  country.  He  knew  them  for  miles  in  all  direc 
tions  around  Highmont.  They  called  him  "Sweet  Sam," 
as  he  always  brought  them  candy.  He  went  to  the  city 
and  brought  home  with  him  a  very  elegant-looking  wife. 
We  always  wondered  how  Sam  won  her.  This  fine  lady, 
however,  had  her  "temper,"  and  would  say  things  right 
out  in  company.  Once  during  a  visit  to  Highmont  Sam 
wanted  his  wife  to  go  with  him  to  see  some  of  his  old 
girls.  "What  do  I  want  to  see  them  for?"  she  asked,  in 
a  key  that  would  have  opened  all  the  upstairs  rooms. 
"Why,"  said  Sam,  meeklike,  "to  'crow'  over  them !" 
"You  flatter  yourself,  Mr.  Wiggins.  What  have  I  to 
crow  over?"  Then  everybody  laughed  but  Sam. 

With  all  of  Bill's  indifference  he  would  often  think  of 
the  two  years  he  and  Anita  had  spent  so  happily  together, 
for  he  loved  her  then,  before  he  had  gotten  all  those 
Fifth  avenue  notions  in  his  head. 


CHAPTER  II. 

When  Bill  came  home  again  I  could  sec  that  he  missed 
Anita.  He  told  his  mother  as  much.  He  said  he 
had  found  the  city  ladies  more  shoiv  than  real. 

Shortly  after  Bill's  first  visit  home  Anita's  father 
moved  away  with  his  family.  The  Leightons  had  come 
to  Highmont  when  Anita,  their  only  child,  was  a  wee  bit 
of  a  girl  of  three  years,  so  that  she  had  known  no  other 
home.  She  had  grown  to  love  our  village  and  its  people, 
and  when  going  away  she  said :  "I  know  I  will  never  find 
another  place  so  dear  to  me  as  Highmont."  One  always 
feels  that  way  when  one  has  known  but  one  place.  The 
dweller  in  the  city  pities  the  poor  mountaineer,  while  the 
poor  mountaineer,  in  his  turn,  wonders  how  "them  people 
do  stand  it,  anyway,  to  allers  be  shut  up  in  ther  hot,  dusty 
city !" 

The  Leightons  had  never  seemed  like  our  people.  There 
was  that  about  them  which  indicated  a  marked  degree  of 
culture.  Mr.  Leighton  had  been  an  officer  in  the  British 
Army,  and  rumor  said  he  belonged  to  a  fine  old  English 
family,  but  no  one  could  ever  get  him  to  talk  on  the  sub 
ject,  and  so  we  got  to  thinking,  from  his  silence,  that  there 
was  a  mystery  about  his  life.  "Why  should  he  come  to 
America  and  settle  in  a  far  removed  mountain  village  of 
scarce  two  hundred  people,  all  of  them  so  different  in 
every  way  from  what  he  had  been  accustomed  to?  Did 
he  want  to  hide  away  ?"  These  and  many  more  questions 

6 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  7 

we  asked  each  other.  If  to  hide  from  the  world,  he  had 
indeed  come  to  the  right  place,  as  the  only  communication 
we  had  with  the  outside  world  was  the  tri-weekly  stage 
coach,  which  few  ever  used  aside  from  the  "drummers." 

With  all  our  wondering,  however,  he  came  and  went, 
taking  with  him  the  mystery,  and  not  until  years  after  did 
we  learn  that  his  real  name  was  Charles  Leighton  Allyn, 
son  of  Lord  Leighton  Allyn,  of  Westmoreland,  in  the 
North  of  England. 

When  Charles  was  hut  eighteen  years  old  he  entered  the 
army  and  passed  a  number  of  years  in  India.  For  his 
devotion  to  duty  and  his  many  deeds  of  valor  he  was  from 
time  to  time  promoted,  until  he  had  reached  the  rank  of 
captain.  Once  during  the  Sepoy  mutiny  of  1857  the  de 
tachment  to  which  he  belonged  was  hemmed  in  by  several 
thousand  of  those  fanatical  Indian  soldiers.  The  English 
were  so  securely  entrenched  in  the  mountains  that  for 
days  they  kept  back  the  hordes  of  Sepoys,  but  on  the 
evening  of  the  sixth  day  their  ammunition  began  to  run 
low.  The  commanding  general  called  a  council  of  his 
officers  and  told  them  that  unless  help  came  soon  they 
would  be  unable  to  withstand  the  attacks.  All  knew  that 
this  meant  that  there  would  be  no  one  left  to  tell  the  story 
of  the  battle. 

"Surrounded  as  we  are  on  all  sides,"  said  the  general, 
"it  will  be  almost  impossible  for  us  to  get  a  messenger 
through  their  lines,  and  yet  it  is  our  only  hope.  But  who 
will  go?  There  is  one  chance  in  a  hundred  that  their 
lines  can  be  penetrated  and  passed  by  a  man  who  does  not 
fear  death." 

"General,"  spoke  up  Colonel  Ross,  "I  have  in  my  regi 
ment  a  young  lieutenant  from  Westmoreland  who  is  not 
only  fearless,  but  he  is  one  of  the  most  tactful  officers  in 
our  armv.  If  there  is  the  one  chance,  he  will  take  it." 


8  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

''Call  him  at  once,"  said  the  general. 

Charles  Leigh  ton  Allyn  was  called,  and  when  the  object 
of  the  council  was  told  him,  he  quietly  said : 

''General,  I  will  go!" 

"Do  you  know,"  he  was  asked,  "that  it  means  almost 
certain  death  to  you?" 

"I  do;  but  it  may  mean  death  to  all  if  some  one  does 
not  attempt  this  risk,  and  I  fear  not  to  try.  General,  I 
am  at  your  service."  The  general  gave  him  minute  in 
structions  for  his  perilous  mission.  He  was  ready  within 
the  hour,  and  set  out  at  once,  as  every  moment  was 
precious. 

How  he  succeeded  in  eluding  the  vigilance  of  the 
Sepoys  as  he  passed  through  their  lines  he  scarcely  knew 
himself,  but  that  he  did,  and  by  morning  of  the  next  day 
had  reached  the  outpost  of  a  large  body  of  English  troops 
beyond  the  mountains  is  a  matter  of  history. 

The  general  in  command  of  these  troops  had  been  sent 
to  relieve  the  besieged  army,  but  knew  not  the  great  peril 
it  was  in,  nor  did  he  know  its  exact  location  until  Charles 
had  hurriedly  sketched  a  rough  map  of  the  battleground 
and  intervening  country. 

The  long  journey  had  been  almost  too  much  for  even 
the  hardy  constitution  of  Charles,  but  there  was  no<  time 
to  rest.  He  was  given  a  horse,  and  was  soon  at  the  head 
of  the  moving  columns,  leading  on  to  the  relief  of  his 
comrades. 

By  forced  marches  they  had  come  in  sight  of  the  battle 
ground  on  the  following  forenoon,  and  were  none  too 
soon,  for  the  ammunition  of  the  besieged  army  was  all 
gone,  and  they  were  fighting  hand  to  hand  with  the  now 
desperate  Sepoys. 

The  fate  of  the  battle  quickly  turned  as  the  reinforce 
ments  poured  down  from  the  mountain  side,  sweeping 


MY    FRIEND    BILL.  9 

everything  before  them.  What  a  loud  cheer  went  up  as 
the  advancing-  army  came  into  the  camp  of  their  besieged 
friends !  Charles  was  the  hero  of  the  hour,  and  well  he 
might  have  been ! 

The  day  following  he  was  called  out  in  the  presence  of 
the  united  armies  and  decorated,  and,  although  but 
twenty-one  years  of  age,  was  made  a  captain.  It  was  a 
proud  day  for  his  family  in  England  when  news  of  his 
daring  deed  came  to  them.  He  returned  to  his  home 
shortly  after  this,  as  the  active  service  was  over,  the 
Sepoys  having  been  quelled  and  a  number  of  them  shot 
from  cannon  as  a  civilizing  (?)  example  to  their  fellow- 
mutineers. 

Charles  had  another  tie  besides  his  family  to  call  him 
home.  On  a  neighboring  estate  dwelt  a  young  maiden 
whom  he  had  known  and  loved  from  his  childhood.  He 
and  Lady  Whiteside  had  during  the  years  of  his  absence 
kept  up  a  correspondence.  Her  welcome  to  the  young 
captain  was  quite  as  warm  as  that  of  his  own  family. 
His  father,  a  stern,  cold-hearted  man,  had  never  approved 
of  this  attachment.  He  had  other  notions  about  his  son's 
choice  in  the  selection  of  a  wife. 

"Charles,"  said  Lord  Leighton  one  day,  shortly  after 
his  son's  return,  "I  do  not  approve  of  Lady  Whiteside.  I 
have  selected  for  you  a  wife  more  suitable.  There  is 
Lady  Tealbrooke,  a  most  superior  woman,  and  one  I 
would  have  you  marry." 

"Yes.  father ;  but  she  is  much  older  than  I,  very  ugly  in 
face  and  disposition,  and  cold  natured ;  besides,  I  do  not 
love  her." 

"Love !  What  has  that  to  do  with  it  ?  Think  of  the 
lands  she  will  bring  to  you !" 

"Father,  in  reason  I  will  abide  your  decision  in  all 
things,  but  to  ask  me  to  marrv  a  woman  whose  onlv  merit 


10  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

is  the  lands  she  will  bring  to  me  is  asking  more  than  I 
can  grant  you." 

"What!"  cried  the  father,  in  a  towering  rage,  "do  you 
tell  me  that  my  will  is  not  to  be  obeyed  ?" 

"I  cannot  nor  will  I  marry  a  woman  I  can  never  love, 
though  she  owned  the  whole  of  England !" 

"Enough !  Say  no  more.  From  this  day  forth  I  am 
childless.  Go ;  there  is  no  longer  a  place  for  you  at  my 
board — you,  who  refuse  to  do  my  will." 

His  mother,  as  lovely  in  character  as  his  father  was  cold 
and  heartless,  pleaded  in  vain  for  her  brave,  noble  son. 
The  father  would  listen  to  no  reason.  His  will  had  been 
defied,  and  nothing  could  change  his  purpose.  Charles 
and  Lady  Whiteside  were  married  soon  after,  and  he  got 
transferred  from  India  to  garrison  duty  in  England. 

Four  years  after  his  marriage  his  mother  died.  During 
all  these  years  she  had  pleaded  for  her  son,  but  Lord 
Leighton  was  relentless.  Not  even  her  death  softened 
his  nature.  Charles  resigned  from  the  army  and  came  to 
America  with  his  wife  and  daughter,  Anita.  They  came 
almost  direct  to  Highmont.  Of  their  residence  there  I 
have  spoken  fully.  When  they  went  away  it  was  to  re 
turn  to  England.  Old  Lord  Leighton  Allyn  having  died, 
his  son,  now  Lord  Leighton,  came  into  his  inheritance. 
They  were  loved  by  every  one  in  Highmont,  and  their 
going  away  was  deeply  felt  by  all. 

When  Bill  came  home  again  I  could  see  that  he  missed 
Anita.  He  told  his  mother  as  much.  He  said  he  had 
found  the  city  ladies  "more  show  than  real."  His  mother, 
good  soul  that  she  was,  proved  an  exception  by  not  re 
ferring  him  to  what  she  had  previously  remarked  on  that 
subject. 


CHAPTER   HI. 

Come  to  the  city,  Rube.     I'll  show  you  the  sights  and 
have  fun  with  you! 

Bill  had  often  invited  me  to  come  to  New  York  to  visit 
him.  "Come  to  the  city,  Rube.  I'll  show  you  the  sights 
and  have  fun  with  you."  I  had  a  great  longing  to  go. 
For  years,  on  each  recurrence  of  Bill's  visits  home,  he  had 
told  me  so  many  wonderful  things  about  New  York,  and 
spoke  so  familiarly  of  its  great  men,  that  I  thought  he 
was  on  most  intimate  terms  with  them.  This,  with  the 
fact  that  he  lived  on  Fifth  avenue,  had  always  kept  me 
from  accepting  his  invitation.  But  finally  I  could  resist 
no  longer.  I  surprised  the  family  one  day  by  telling  them 
that  I  was  going  to  New  York  to  see  Bill.  They  tried  to 
dissuade  me,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  It  had  taken  me  years 
to  decide,  and  I  was  now  determined  to  go.  I  did  not 
care  if  Bill  lived  in  the  finest  palace  on  the  avenue,  even 
though  next  door  to  a  man  of  millions.  It  was  all  the 
same  to  me,  now  that  I  had  made  up  my  mind.  I  did 
hope,  however,  that  he  would  not  make  me  spend  much  of 
my  time  visiting  among  his  rich  friends ;  I  was  afraid  I 
would  not  feel  comfortable.  I  did  not  write  to  him  that 
I  was  coming.  I  wanted  to  surprise  him,  and  subsequent 
events  proved  that  I  was  most  successful. 

I  will  not  try  to  tell  of  the  pleasures  of  the  coming. 
"My  first  ride  on  the  cars"  has  been  told  by  too  many  to 
have  left  in  the  telling  any  newness  to  the  story.  Suffice 


12  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

it  that  I  seemed  drifting  through  space  into  a  new  world 
at  lightning  speed.  The  only  thing  to  mar  the  new  joy 
was  the  fear  that  the  train  would  run  off  the  track.  It 
did  not,  however,  and  I  reached  the  city  almost  before  I 
had  fairly  started.  The  longest  part  of  the  way  had 
seemed  the  stage. 

Not  until  I  was  safely  in  the  city  did  it  occur  to  me 
that  I  didn't  know  just  where  to  find  Bill — I  don't  believe 
I  gave  the  matter  a  thought.  Such  a  little  item  as  an 
address,  to  one  who  had  never  had  any  occasion  to  use 
an  address,  it  is  not  surprising  that  I  should  have  given 
no  thought  as  to  how  I  was  to  find  my  friend.  I  sort  o' 
felt  that  I'd  run  across  him  in  the  street,  and  if  not,  I 
would  just  find  where  he  lived  from  some  of  those  big 
friends  of  his.  I  knew  that  they  would  be  only  too  glad 
to  either  tell  me,  or,  for  that  matter,  go  with  me  if  I  told 
them  that  I  was  a  friend  of  Bill's  from  home.  Bill  had 
always  spoken  so  familiarly  of  these  great  men  of  New 
York,  that  I  was  sure  they  would  know  all  about  him. 

I  wanted  to  do  the  proper  thing,  so  I  thought  to  take 
a  carriage,  as  I  knew  Bill  would  be  more  pleased  to  see 
me  if  I  came  in  good  style.  I  did  not  have  the  least 
trouble  in  finding  a  carriage,  as  it  did  seem  that  every  man 
in  town  who  owned  a  team  was  down  at  the  ferry  that  day 
and  knew  at  once  what  I  wanted  before  I  had  said  a 
word;  and  the  minute  I  spoke — well,  I  had  played  foot 
ball — head  man  of  the  "wedge" — but  football  was  easy. 
When  I  "came  to,"  half  an  hour  after  the  "rush,"  I  found 
myself  going  uptown.  I  asked  the  driver  where  he  wras 
going  with  me.  "Fait',  Oi  doan  kno' ;  ye  hov'n't  tould  me 
yit;  but  it's  whariver  ye  wants."  I  asked  him  if  he  knew 
where  Fifth  avenue  was.  "Thrue  far  ye — divil  a  place  in 
the  city  Oi  doan  kno'.  And  is  it  Fifth  ahvnu  ye  wants? 
It's  whnrlin'  to  it.  ve  ahr." 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  13 

That  driver  knew  more  about  New  York  city  than  a 
guide-book,  and  he  was  so  sociable  and  willing  to  impart 
information  that  I  quite  forgave  him  the  terrible  hustling 
1  got  at  the  ferry.  I  asked  him,  as  a  sort  of  introduction, 
how  he  got  me,  seeing  there  were  so  many  after  me. 

"Ye  may  wull  ask  thot  saim,  and  thonk  me  bruther,  who 
is  aim  the  foorce,  far  savin'  yer  loife  by  puttin'  ye  into 
me  kerridge." 

"I  thought,"  said  1,  "they  were  all  on  the  'force/  the 
way  they  hustled  me." 

"No;  Oi  mane  me  bruther  is  aim  the  purless  foorce,  and 
is  stashunned  at  the  firry." 

Just  then  we  passed  through  a  woods  lot,  with  walks 
and  flowers,  and  benches  here  and  there,  with  all  sorts 
of  people  sitting  around,  as  though  they  had  nothing  to 
do  but  take  life  easy.  It  was  all  very  beautiful.  The 
driver  said  the  place  was  called  Washington  Square.  I 
wanted  to  stop  a  while  and  look  at  it,  but  he  would  have 
to  hurry  on,  he  said,  as  Fifth  avenue  was  a  long  way 
off  yet. 

From  this  "square"  we  drove  out  into  a  wide  road  that 
was  so  very  long  that  I  couldn't  see  the  other  end  of  it. 

Further  on  up  this  wide  pike  we  came  to  another  little 
"square."  The  driver  said  it  was  Madison  Square.  He 
pointed  out  a  red  brick  house  across  the  way,  which  he 
said  was  Mister  Delmonioo's  place.  T  had  often  heard 
Bill  speak  about  this  house,  but  he  always  called  it 
"Del's."  I  was  almost  sure  it  was  the  same  place.  No,  it 
could  not  be ;  "Del's"  was  on  Fifth  avenue.  He  also 
pointed  out  another  big  house — a  big  stone  house — just 
across  to  the  west  from  the  "square."  "Thare's  phare  the 
up-Sthate  pollytishuns  liould  Sunday  school."  I  could 
not  help  thinking  that  there  must  be  a  great  many  poli 
ticians  up  the  State  to  need  so  large  a  house.  I  also 


J4  MY    FRIEND    BILL. 

thought  how  different  New  York  politicians  were  from 
those  in  Pennsylvania,  where  the  smallest  school-house  in 
the  country  would  hold  all  who  wanted  to  attend  Sunday 
school  and  not  crowd  each  other  at  that. 

Further  along  1  saw  a  great  pile  of  stone  at  one  side  of 
the  road,  and  asked  the  driver  if  it  was  a  stone  quarry. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  he,  "thot  is  the  riservoy  phat  thay  ahr 
goin'  to  tare  down  and  build  a  library  in  2200  A.  D.,  if 
by  thot  toime  the  coourts  hov  decided  thot  Mister  Tilding 
knew  how  to  dhraw  a  wull ;  and  thot  big  bilding  beyant  is 
called  the  Grand  Cintril."  And  so  he  ran  on,  telling  me 
of  more  places  than  I  had  ever  thought  there  were  in  the 
whole  city  of  New  York.  He  was  so  well  acquainted; 
not  a  house  but  he  could  tell  me  who  lived  in  it. 

Of  all  the  fine  parks  we  had  seen  there  were  none  of 
them  that  could  compare  with  the  one  called  "Cintril" 
Park.  We  drove  along  its  full  length.  To  see  it  made 
me  almost  ashamed  that  I  had  asked  so  often  if  we  would 
never  reach  Fifth  avenue.  Several  times  I  felt  convinced 
that  we  had  come  into  New  York  at  the  wrong  end. 
That  driver,  however,  talked  so  entertainingly  about  the 
various  places  we  were  passing,  and  told  me  so  many 
things  about  the  people  who  lived  in  the  palaces  on  the 
way,  that  I  scarcely  noticed  the  hours  as  they  passed — 
for  that  matter,  the  hours  passed  along  faster  than  our  old 
horse.  I  was  fortunate  that  I  had  brought  with  me,  from 
home,  an  abundance  of  ginger-bread  in  my  big  carpet 
satchel,  else  I  had  grown  very  hungry  before  we  had 
reached  Bill's  ahvnu. 

Finally,  late  in  the  afternoon,  the  driver  said  we  were 
nearly  there.  Up  this  street,  down  that,  back  up  another, 
and  then :  "Here  ye  aire  at  lasht.  It  was  a  lang,  tajus 
thrip  ye  hod."  Indeed  it  was  long,  much  longer  in  time 
than  my  stage  coach  ride  of  the  morning  from  Highmont. 


MY    FRIEND    BILL.  15 

"And  now,  Pat,  what  is  the  fare"  I  asked. 

"Wull,  Oi'll  hov  to  kalklatc.  Corllandt  to  Washington 
Sqare,  twenty- four  blox;  Washington  Sqare  to  Wan 
Hundrid  and  Thurty-ate  strate,  is  wan  hnndrid  and 
thurty-wan  more ;  thot  maix  wan  hundrid  and  fufty-six 
hlox  awl  tould — at  fure  cints  a  blok — $6.40 — no,  $6.24 — 
yis,  thot's  roight,  six  dalers  and  twinty-fure  cints." 

I  told  him  that  he  was  mistaken ;  that  my  name  was 
not  Astor.  "I  am  no  millionaire." 

''Come  aff,  now  ;  yeez  name  wull  be  Dinnis  if  ye  dis 
pute  me  bill,  which  is  moast  rasinable,  afther  me  lang 
dhrivc,  nat  to  minshun  the  grate  infurmashun  Oi've  guv 
ye  cumin'  alang." 

I  finally  compromised  with  him  on  $5.  Then  I  started 
out  on  Fifth  avenue  to  hunt  for  Bill. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
"Kit tie,  what  is  it?     Name  it,  and  it's  yours." 

Were  you  ever  raised  in  the  country  and  got  dropped 
down  into  a  great  city  all  at  once  ?  Then  you  remember 
how  the  first  thing  you  did  was  to  look  about  for  a  familiar 
face.  Out  home  you  knew  everybody  for  miles  around, 
and  got  so  used  to  knowing  people  that  the  feeling  fol 
lowed  you.  Oh,  I  know  how  it  was  with  you ;  that  is  just 
how  I  felt  that  day  on  the  "Ahvnu." 

As  1  walked  along  I  felt  sure  that  I  must  meet  some 
one  I  knew,  but  I  did  not,  and  yet,  strange  to  say,  while 
1  didn't  know  a  soul,  a  number  of  the  people  I  met  knew 
me  even  by  name. 

I  knew  that  they  had  never  been  in  our  town,  for  when 
ever  a  stranger  dropped  in  we  all  went  down  to  the  tavern 
and  got  real  well  acquainted  before  he  left  the  village.  It 
was  no  end  of  wonder,  then,  to  me  to  hear  these  people,  as 
they  passed,  remark  to  each  other :  "There's  A.  Ruben.  I 
wonder  when  he  got  in?"  Now,  how  could  they  know 
me,  and  I  just  arrived?  I  puzzled  my  brain  until  it  was 
all  of  a  whirl.  I  forgot  to  introduce  myself  to  you  before. 
My  name  is  Adolphus  Ruben  Hickenlooper,  of  Highmont, 
Pennsylvania. 

I  had  divided  my  first  names  up  in  various  ways. 
Sometimes  Adolph  Ruben,  Adolphus  R.,  and  Dolphus  R., 
but  when  Bill  came  back  from  New  York  on  one  of  his 
vacations  he  said  that  the  proper  thing  was  to  use  the 

16 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  17 

initial  of  the  first  name  and  the  full  middle  name.  Since 
then  I  have  always  written  it  A.  Ruben.  And  now,  to 
think  of  these  people,  utter  strangers  to  me,  in  a  far-away 
city,  knowing  me !  It  was  too  much  for  my  compre 
hension  ! 

Some  of  them  were  real  friendly  and  spoke  up  so 
sociable  like  that  it  made  me  feel  that  I  was  home  again. 
"Hullo,  Rube,"  said  one;  "when  did  you  come?"  I  told 
him  that  I  had  just  got  in.  "Glad  to  see  you.  How  are 
the  folks  at  home  ?  Say,  Rube,  you  want  to  keep  off  the 
Bowery."  I  thanked  him.  Now,  how  did  he  know  that 
I  wanted  to  keep  off  the  Bowery?  That  was  one  of  the 
very  places  I  had  heard  Bill  speak  of  so  much  that  I  had 
determined  to  see  it  as  soon  as  possible,  and  here  was  this 
fellow  telling  me  that  I  wanted  to  keep  O'ff.  It  just  shows 
how  little  some  people  know  what  other  people  really 
want. 

Not  only  the  men,  but  the  women  as  well,  showed  a 
friendliness.  I  had  always  thought  of  the  New  York 
ladies  as  cold  and  haughty.  Not  so,  for  I  met  two  beauti 
fully  dressed  girls  as  I  came  down  the  avenue.  They  had 
just  come  out  of  one  of  those  palaces  that  lined  the  way, 
and  were  about  to  enter  their  carriage,  which  was  waiting 
for  them  at  the  side  of  the  road,  as  I  passed  along.  They 
smiled  real  friendly,  and  began  talking  to  each  other.  I 
could  only  hear  a  little  of  what  they  said.  One  remark, 
however,  seemed  very  odd  to  me :  "Kittie,  what  is  it  ? 
Name  it,  and  it's  yours."  There  was  really  nothing  to  the 
remark,  and  yet  they  both  laughed  right  out  and  smiled 
at  me  as  they  were  driven  away  by  two  soldiers,  in  uni 
form,  who  sat  on  the  top  of  the  carnage. 

I  had  been  so  taken  up  with  the  people  I  met  that  I  had 
not  noticed  the  houses,  but  when  I  did  look  at  them  they 
looked  so  familiar  that  I  felt  I  had  seen  them  in  a  dream. 


!8  MY    FRIEND    BILL. 

When,  however,  I  got  down  to  the  stone  quarry,  which 
the  driver  had  called  the  "riservoy,"  I  knew  it  was  no 
dream,  but  I  was  greatly  bewildered.  How  could  this 
be  Fifth  avenue?  How  could  all  these  other  places  be  on 
Fifth  avenue,  when  I  was  here  only  an  hour  or  two  be 
fore  ?  I  asked  a  man,  who  looked  as  though  he  wanted  to 
talk  to  me :  "Is  there  any  other  road  in  this  town  that 
looks  just  like  this  one?"  He  said  there  was  but  one 
Fifth  avenue,  and  that  it  looked  only  like  itself  and  never 
changed,  except  just  before  election,  when  they  dug  it 
up  to  give  work  to  their  "heelers."  I  wished  for  the 
driver.  I  was  sure  that  he  could  explain  it,  for  he  did 
know  a  sight  of  things  for  one  in  his  walk  of  life. 

I  had  not  been  idle  in  my  search  for  Bill.  On  every 
chance  during  my  long  walk  1  had  asked  people  if  they 
knew  him.  I  met  one  oldish  gentleman,  coming  leisurely 
along,  who  had  such  a  good,  kind  face  that  I  thought  he 
might  tell  me  the  best  way  to  find  my  friend.  He  said 
that  without  an  address  I  would  have  a  long  search. 

"It  is  so  strange,"  I  told  him,  "that  I  can't  find  anybody 
who  knows  Bill.  Why,  mister,  from  what  Bill  always 
said  himself,  or,  rather,  what  I  gathered  from  what  he 
did  say,  I  was  under  the  impression  that  everybody  on 
Fifth  avenue  knew  him  intimately." 

"I  am  afraid,  young  man,  that  your  friend  Bill  is  like  a 
great  many  other  country  boys  who  come  to  New  York. 
They  stay  here  a  few  months,  and  on  their  return  home 
give  their  friends  the  impression  that  they  were  the  only 
fellows  coming  down  the  'Ahvnu'  while  in  the  city." 

He  asked  me  my  name,  where  I  was  from,  when  I  got 
to  town  and  how  long  I  intended  to  remain.  When  I 
told  him  my  name  he  smiled  and  said :  "It  fits  very  well." 
I  didn't  know  what  he  meant,  but  I  smiled,  too.  just  as 
though  I  understood.  He  wanted  to  know  if  I  was  in  any 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  19 

particular  hurry,  and,  if  not,,  would  I  come  in  with  him, 
as  he  lived  "only  a  step  or  two  up  the  block."  I  was 
almost  afraid  to  go,  as  Bill  had  often  told  me  about  men 
called  "bunkoers,"  who  invite  you  in  and  "do  you,"  as  he 
said.  When  I  looked  at  this  man's  genial  face  I  knew  he 
would  never  "do"  anybody.  I  knew  I  was  safe,  and  said 
I  would  go  with  him,  wondering  all  the  while  why  he 
should  want  me  as  a  visitor.  He  took  me  into  a  palace. 
I  wish  1  could  describe  it,  but  I  don't  know  what  words 
to  use,  as  I  had  never  seen  anything  like  it  before.  We 
sat  down,  and  he  then  told  me  why  he  had  invited  me  in. 
Fie  seemed  almost  sad  as  he  said: 

"Young  man,  you  have  told  me  that  you  live  far  away 
in  the  mountains  of  Pennsylvania,  so  far  removed  that 
you  see  nothing  of  the  outside  world.  I  would  have  you 
tell  me  some  of  the  humorous  stories  that  prevail  in  your 
country.  This  may  seem  to  you  a  very  strange  request, 
but  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am  what  they  call  an  after- 
dinner  speaker,  you  may  appreciate  my  po'sition.  Here  I 
am  scarce  in  middle  life,  and  yet,  with  invitations  increas 
ing,  I  have  told  and  retold  all  the  funny  stories  extant.  I 
have  searched  in  foreign  lands  for  something  new  and 
found  nothing.  I  have  carried  to  the  royalty  of  Europe 
my  best  stories.  I  have  told  these  stories  on  one  visit, 
knowing  that  they  will  be  fully  understood  and  their  fine 
points  appreciated  by  my  next.  But  now  I  have  nothing 
left  to  tell  which  I  have  not  told  and  retold  many  times 
before.  My  reputation  is  at  stake — yes,  young  man,  my 
very  reputation ;"  and  then,  almost  desperate  in  his 
anxiety :  "Tell  me,  tell  me  but  one  good  story  that  is 
new,  and  I  am  your  friend  always." 

Not  for  a  moment  would  I  have  believed  that  this  man 
was  a  humorist,  so  tragical  was  he  in  his  search  for  hu 
mor.  I  could  not  deny  him  the  simple  request,  and  so  I 


20  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

related  a  number  of  stories  I  had  heard  Uncle  Dave  Carter 
and  Dave  Stoner  tell  of  winter  nights  as  we  all  sat  around 
the  old  stove  at  Carter's  tavern.  He  was  wild  with  de 
light  as  I  told  these  simple  village  stories.  He  said  they 
were  nearly  all  new,  and  was  kind  enough  to  say  that  I 
told  them  well ;  even  said  I  would  make  an  after-dinner 
speaker — if  I  took  enough  years'  time  for  it.  He  invited 
me  to  call  at  some  other  time  and  to  let  him  know  when 
I  found  Bill. 

He  had  aroused  my  curiosity  to  know  something  about 
after-dinner  speaking,  so  I  asked  him  what  they  did  at 
these  dinners.  He  looked  at  me  inquisitive  like  and  said : 
"Oh,  a  good  many  things,  young  man,  especially  at  some 
of  them  to  which  I  don't  get  an  invitation."  He  said 
that  if  I  was  going  to  be  in  the  city  for  any  length  of  time 
he  would  get  me  an  invitation  to  one,  and  then  I  could  see 
for  myself.  I  was  delighted,  and  couldn't  he:lp  wonder 
ing  what  the  people  of  Highmont  would  think  if  they 
knew  I  had  a  possible  chance  of  getting  an  invitation  to  a 
swell  New  York  dinner,  as  the  guest  of — whose  guest 
would  I  be,  anyhow?  Who  was  this  man?  He  hadn't 
thought  to  tell  me  his  name,  and  I  couldn't  ask  very  well ; 
but  I  knew  he  could  not  be  far  from  the  top.  Had  he  not 
spoken  of  the  royalty  of  Europe?  I  felt  just  then  almost 
as  well  pleased  as  though  I  had  found  Bill.  He  was 
profuse  in  his  thanks,  and,  as  I  was  going,  he  gave  me 
his  card.  When  I  looked  at  it  I  nearly  fell  down  the  steps, 
so  great  was  my  excitement.  Here  I  had  been  visiting 
with  the  very  man  Bill  had  always  spoken  of  as  one  of 
the  best-known  men  in  the  world,  and  he  had  treated  me 
as  though  I  was  one  'of  his  own  kind,  instead  of  looking 
upon  me  as  the  green  country  boy  that  I  was. 

T  soon  noticed  that  I  was  dressed  different  from  the 
men  I  met.  Nearly  every  one  had  "pants"  that  came  clear 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  21 

to  his  very  shoe  heels,  while  mine  only  came  half-way  up 
my  boots.  They  wore  their  coat  sleeves,  as  I  thought, 
far  too  long  for  comfort,  while  none  of  them  had  a  nice, 
broad-brimmed  hat  like  mine.  Neither  had  any  of  them 
hair  so  long  as  mine.  In  short,  I  was  what  might  have 
been  termed  real  unique  in  my  dress.  It  must  have  been 
quite  a  marked  difference,  as  nearly  everybody  seemed  to 
take  a  lively  interest  in  my  appearance,  much  as  we  were 
when  a  stranger  came  to  our  village  dressed  differently 
from  us.  We  never,  however,  patterned  after  him,  as  our 
village  tailor,  who  was  also  our  barber  and  horse  doctor, 
always  used  to  say,  when  one  of  these  strangely  dressed 
fellows  came  around :  "That  man  don't  know  the  first 
thing  about  style."  But  we  never  tried  to  make  him  feel 
that  we  noticed,  as  we  just  thought  he  might  dress  as  he 
pleased ;  and  I  guess  he  would  have  done  so,  anyhow, 
even  had  we  spoken  to  him  on  the  subject,  as  I  have  heard 
Bill  say  that  city  people  were  very  set  in  their  ways. 

I  call  to  mind  one  young  fellow  in  particular  who  once 
came  to  Highmont,  hunting.  We  called  him  tiie  hunter, 
but  he  never  got  any  game  except  what  he  bought  from 
some  of  us  boys  who  could  shoot.  He'd  pay  us  two  prices 
for  it,  too — one  for  the  game  itself  and  the  other,  not  to 
tell  on  him,  when  he  would  be  bragging  about  his  good 
luck,  of  an  evening,  at  Carter's  tavern.  You  should  have 
seen  that  hunter.  He  had  three  trunks  of  clothes,  and 
changed  them  so  often  that  had  we  not  gotten  used  to 
his  face  we  would  have  thought  he  was  a  whole  company 
of  hunters.  He  had  a  peculiar  scar  on  his  right  cheek, 
which  he  said  he  had  gotten  in  a  duel  over  in  Germany, 
where  he  had  been  at  college.  He  was  very  proud  of  that 
scar.  He  said  if  a  student  didn't  have  a  sword  cut  some 
where  about  his  face  or  head  that  he  wasn't  thought  to  be 
anything.  For  my  part,  I'd  rather  be  a  large  nothing 


22  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

than  to  have  my  face  made  more  homely  than  it  is  by  a 
cut  of  honor,  as  he  called  it.  He  told  us  how  in  Germany 
the  custom  of  treating  was  not  known.  It  was  before  he 
had  learned  of  this  that  he  one  day  offered  to  pay  for  a 
fellow-student's  drink,  which  insult  brought  on  the  chal 
lenge  and  the  cut.  I  couldn't  help  thinking  how  dry  some 
people  would  get  if  that  custom  prevailed  here. 

We  sometimes  got  real  mad  at  him.  While  we  were 
shooting  the  game  for  him  he  would  be  very  agreeable, 
but  the  minute  he  got  into  one  of  those  changes  of  clothes 
he  was  another  man,  and  the  other  man  wouldn't  speak  to 
us.  He  would  look  at  us  through  a  piece  of  glass  that  he 
had  tied  to  a  string,  as  though  we  were  some  rare  bird  or 
beast  that  he  would  like  to  shoot  at.  This  didn't  scare 
us  a  little  bit,  for  we  had  seen  him  shoot.  Then  there 
was  another  thing  that  made  us  wild  mad.  The  young 
girls  in  town  acted  as  though  he  was  the  only  real  thing 
that  had  ever  blown  into  the  village.  No  matter  where 
they  were,  this  hunter  was  all  they  talked  about.  Toward 
the  latter  part  of  his  three  \veeks'  stay  the  girls  couldn't 
see  us  boys,  even  when  we  were  standing  right  by  them. 
One  strange  thing  about  him  was  that  nobody  knew 
when  he  left  town.  He  sent  his  trunks  on  the  stage  one 
day,  but  he  stayed  right  on  and  hunted.  Then  all  at  once, 
when  nobody  suspected  a  thing,  he  was  gone — swallowed 
up,  as  it  wrere.  He  was  the  only  stranger  that  ever  left 
Highmont  without  our  knowing  it. 

It  was  getting  late.  I  had  walked  the  full  length  of  the 
avenue  and  I  had  found  no  clue  to  Bill.  A  man  went 
with  me  into  a  drug  store  and  looked  all  through  a  big 
book,  which  he  called  a  directory,  but  he  couldn't  find  any 
one  by  the  name  of  William  Van  Alden,  except  one,  a 
banker,  and  his  residence  was  in  Hackensack.  I  knew  this 
couldn't  be  my  Bill,  for  what  else  he  might  be,  he  was  no 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  23 

banker.  I  gave  up  the  search  for  the  day,  and  went  back 
up  the  road  to  a  large  hotel  in  front  of  Madison  Square, 
where  I  stayed  all  night.  Next  morning,  when  I  went  to 
the  desk  to  pay,  I  was  amused  when  the  fellow  with  a 
small  looking-glass  on  his  shirt  front  thought  I  wanted 
to  buy  the  room  I  had  used  for  the  night.  "No,"  I  told 
him,  "I  don't  need  it;  I  have  no  use  for  it.  Besides,  how 
can  I  take  it  with  me?"  I  was  amused  only  for  a  short 
time,  for,  when  he  said,  "That's  the  price  for  the  night," 
it  all  flashed  onto  me  then  that  that  was  why  even  the 
bankers  move  out  to  Hackensack. 

A  real  nice  young  man,  who  had  heard  me  talking  with 
the  fellow  of  the  looking-glass  front,  told  me  that  if  I 
would  put  an  advertisement  in  the  newspapers  that  I 
wanted  a  room  and  board,  that  I  would  perhaps  get  some 
answers,  and  I  could  select  from  them  a  nice  place.  He 
said  I  had  better  put  it  in  three  or  four  papers,  as,  if  only 
in  one,  the  people  wrho  keep  boarders  might  not  see  it. 
I  asked  him  where  I  could  find  the  papers,  and  if  there 
were  as  many  as  three  or  four  in  the  city.  "Oh,  yes,"  he 
said,  "and,  as  I  am  going  downtown,  I  will  show  you 
where  some  of  them  are."  He  pointed  out  six,  and  said  if 
he  only  had  the  time  that  he  would  point  out  the  rest,  but, 
that  being  his  busy  day,  I'd  have  to  look  them  out  myself. 
I  forgot  to  say  that  the  looking-glass  man — to  show  me 
that  there  were  no  hard  feelings — said  that  I  might  have 
the  answers  sent  to  his  hotel. 

I  began  at  the  first  one — a  German  paper.  The  clerk 
was  very  sociable  and  nice.  He  told  me  how  to  write  the 
advertisement :  "Wanted — A  nice,  quiet  place,  quiet  and 
homelike,  to  board."  I  put  it  in  the  six  papers  which  the 
young  man  had  pointed  out.  I  didn't  say  it  always  the 
same  way — tried  to  see  how  many  different  ways  I  could 
word  it,  but  I  never  failed  to  get  in  "quiet  and  home- 


24  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

like."  I  didn't  want  a  noisy  place,  whatever  else  I  got. 
By  the  time  I  had  visited  the  six  papers  I  had  acquired 
the  ad.  habit  to  such  an  extent  that  I  spent  the  rest  of 
the  day  hunting  out  the  other  newspapers  in  town.  I 
must  have  found  them  all,  by  the  appearance  of  my 
pocketbook  at  the  end  of  the  day,  but,  then,  I  was  de 
termined  to  find  a  "nice,  quiet  place"  to  board,  while 
hunting  for  Bill.  As  the  papers  made  me  pay  for  every 
word  I  used,  I  saved  a  good  many  pennies  by  dropping 
my  last  name  and  signing  simply  "A.  Ruben." 


CHAPTER  V. 

"//  a  man  knew  on  Tuesday  what  he  finds  out  by  Satur 
day,  there  are  a  good  many  things  that  would  never 
happen." 

If  a  man  knew  on  Tuesday  what  he  finds  out  by  Satur 
day,  there  are  a  good  many  things  that  would  never 
happen.  My  troubles  didn't  begin  all  at  once.  They  just 
grew  gradually,  but  a  very  swift  "gradually"  it  was.  I 
put  in  the  "want"  on  Tuesday,  and  on  Wednesday  morn 
ing  went  up  to  the  hotel  in  the  hope  that  I  might  find 
some  replies.  "Did  I  find  some?"  I  did;  but  you  should 
have  been  there  on  Thursday.  They  came  in — whole 
sacks  full  of  them— like  wheat  at  threshing  time.  The 
looking-glass  man  was  wild.  "Young  man,"  said  he, 
"this  is  your  work,  turning  our  hotel  into'  a  postoffice.  Our 
porters  can  do  nothing  all  day  but  handle  your  mail." 

The  newspaper  reporters,  always  looking  for  something 
to  print,  swarmed  around  like  bees  at  a  sugar  camp,  and 
the  very  papers  that  had  taken  my  money  on  Tuesday  came 
out  on  Friday  with  great  headlines,  such  as  "A.  Ruben 
starts  an  endless  chain  at  the  —  -  Hotel."  "A.  Ruben's 
correspondence  grows."  "He  wants  a  quiet  boarding 
place,"  etc.  Some  of  them  had  my  picture  and  a  sketch 
of  my  life,  both  of  which  were  as  correct  as  pictures  and 
sketches  usually  are  in  the  daily  papers.  But  most  of  them 
confined  themselves  to  reporting  the  great  rush  of  business 
at  the  hotel.  By  Saturday  the  suburban  towns  began  to 

25 


26  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

be  heard  from,  with:  "I  have  just  noticed  your  advertise 
ment,  and  1  am  sure  I  have  the  very  place  you  are  looking 
for."  Many  of  the  writers,  not  satisfied  with  extolling 
their  places,  went  on  to  give  a  complete  history  of  their 
family,  "merely  to  show  you  who  we  are — that  we  are 
not  ordinary  people.''  What,  with  letters  still  coming  in 
from  the  city,  and  the  country  replies  added  to  them, 
things  were  very  exciting  at  this  particular  hotel.  The 
clerk  grew  desperate  and  said  if  I  would  only  change  my 
address  that  he  would  give  me  back  what  he  had  charged 
for  the  room  and  pay  me  ten  dollars  besides.  I  had  hardly 
accepted  the  offer  when  a  real  bright-looking  young  man 
came  up  and  said  that  he  had  been  hunting  for  me — said  he 
would  give  me  twenty-five  dollars  for  my  mail,  and  that  I 
might  change  my  address  to  his  office.  I  could  not  think 
what  use  he  could  make  of  it,  but  I  accepted  his  offer  and 
made  the  change,  glad  to  get  out  of  the  matter  so  easily 
and  so  much  ahead  in  the  transaction.  I  learned  that  he 
bought  the  mail  for  the  addresses.  He  told  me  a  week 
or  so  after  that  he  had  never  before  known  that  New  York 
had  so  many  "quiet,  homelike  places."  It  made  him  feel 
real  homesick,  he  said,  to  read  some  of  the  letters.  He  was 
from  a  large  town  in  Pennsylvania,  he  told  me. 

I  selected  a  place  on  a  side  street,  near  Fifth  avenue. 
It  proved  to  be  a  typical  New  York  Boarding  House,  with 
big  capitals.  There  were  a  good  many  boarders  beside 
myself.  I  shall  never  forget  my  first  supper — or,  as  they 
called  it,  dinner.  Everybody  was  so  sociable,  and  all 
wanted  to  talk  with  me.  I  had  never  considered  myself  a 
humorist,  yet  they  all  laughed  at  whatever  I  said  and  made 
me  feel  right  at  home.  Some  of  the  young  men  seemed  to 
me  real  born  statesmen,  the  way  they  could  talk  on  the 
great  topics  of  the  day.  One,  whom  I  afterward  learned 
was  a  clerk  in  the  thread  department  of  a  Sixth  avenue 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  27 

store,  said :  "The  way  the  President  is  running-  the  affairs 
of  this  Nation  is  an  outrage.  If  I  had  the  matters  in  hand, 
they  would  be  run  in  an  altogether  different  manner." 
Then,  turning  to  me,  he  wanted  to  know  :  "Ruben,  what  do 
you  think  of  it?  What  is  your  opinion?" 

"I  have  no  opinion,"  said  I.  "If  I  could  tell  the  Presi 
dent  how  to  run  the  national  affairs  he  might  want  me  in 
his  Cabinet,  and  I  haven't  the  time;  I  am  here  hunting  for 
my  friend  Bill."  Then  they  all  laughed,  and  the  young 
statesman  stopped  talking.  I  was  real  sorry,  because  he 
was  a  good  talker  and  I  liked  to  hear  him. 

Another  of  the  men — "The  Heathen,"  they  called  him — 
like  all  heathens,  he  seemed  to  think  that  everybody  but 
himself  was  in  the  wrong.  There  was  nothing  in  the  Bible 
worth  believing — the  whole  thing  was  one  great  big  mis 
take.  He  said  that  Moses — "if  there  ever  was  such  a  per 
son  as  Moses — had  made  a  great  many  mistakes" — as  he 
said — "many  were  very  grievous  mistakes."  Then,  like 
the  young  statesman,  he  wanted  to  know  of  me  if  I  didn't 
think  so,  too? 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  I,  "I  guess  he  did ;  but  he  should  be 
pardoned,  as  he  never  had  the  advantages  of  a  New  York 
boarding-house,  where  he  might  have  learned  just  what 
to  do  to  escape  those  grave  errors  of  which  he  is  accused." 
He  looked  very  angry  just  then,  but  he  did  not  say  any 
thing  more  about  Moses. 

They  talked  about  many  things  I  had  never  before  heard 
of.  A  fine-looking  young  man  at  my  left,  who  I  learned 
next  day  from  one  of  the  other  boarders  was  an  actor  in 
the  'theatre — or  expected  to>  be  as  soon  as  his  agent  found 
him  a  place — told  us  all  about  why  a  man  by  the  name  of 
Forrest  was  not  a  real  good  actor.  I  was  much  interested 
in  his  great  display  of  theatrical  knowledge,  but  feared  for 
the  young  man,  if  this  Mr.  Forrest  should  ever  get  to  hear 


2g  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

what  he  had  said  about  him.  I  said  as  much  to  the  lady 
who  sat  at  my  side.  "I  wonder,"  said  I,  "what  Mr.  Forrest 
would  say  if  he  should  hear  the  way  his  character  is  being 
torn  up?"  She  laughed  right  out,  and  said  that  Air.  For 
rest  was  dead.  "Then,"  said  I,  "the  young  man  is  safe." 

I  never  heard  so  many  weighty  matters  decided  so  con 
clusively  before  as  at  that  table.  It  made  me  feel,  as  I  sat 
there  listening,  that  my  education  had  been  sadly  neg 
lected.  Very  few  subjects  on  which  they  discoursed  so 
ably  had  I  ever  even  heard  mentioned  before. 

"Ruben,"  asked  the  man  with  the  red  whiskers,  "what 
do  you  do  in  winter  time  out  where  you  live?"  I  was 
very  grateful  to  him,  for  I  was  beginning  to  feel  out  of 
place,  surrounded  by  so  many  intellectual  lights.  Now  I 
could  talk  a  while  on  things  which  I  knew  more  about 
than  they  did.  I  said  we  had  "spelling  matches,  school 
exhibitions,  corn  huskings,  apple  cuttings,  turkey  shooting 
matches."  "Come,  now,"  said  he,  "Ruben  tell  us  about 
those  shooting  matches.  What  are  they  like?  How  do 
you  do  it?  Does  the  fellow  who  shoots  the  best  always 
get  the  turkey?" 

"Not  always,"  I  answered. 

"Why  not  always?"  Then  I  had  to  tell  them  about  the 
time  when  the  other  fellow  got  the  turkey. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"It  is  not  always  the  best  shot  that  wins  the  turkey." 

"I  was  only  eight  years  old  when  I  ran  off  from  home 
one  day — one  Christmas  day,  I  remember  it  well.  There 
was  going  to  be  a  great  shooting  match  down  in  'the 
woods  pasture.'  It  had  been  talked  about  so  much  that  I 
felt  I  just  couldn't  miss  it.  I  knew  what  the  penalty  would 
be  if  father  should  get  to  hear  of  my  being  there,  but  you 
all  know  the  risk  the  boys  will  take  to  do  something  they 
know  is  forbidden  them  to  do.  Well,  I  went.  During 
the  early  part  of  the  match  I  hung  around  the  edge  of  the 
crowd,  afraid  that  I  might  be  seen  by  some  one  who  would 
carry  the  fact  home  to  father,  but  soon  the  match  became 
so  exciting  that  a  whole  score  of  small  boys  of  my  size 
could  walk  unseen  by  both  participants  and  onlookers,  and 
I  came  boldly  out  and  watched  the  game.  There  was 
Captain  Scott  Martin,  captain  of  the  old  militia  company, 
which  did  great  service — in  the  village — up  to  the  time 
they  were  about  to  be  called  out  for  active  service,  when 
they  disbanded ;  Uncle  Dave  Carter,  the  Ritter  boys,  John 
Flick  and  a  lot  of  others — all  good  'shots.'  One  after 
another  won  his  turkey.  The  interest  ran  high.  Scott 
Martin  was  ahead,  with  four  turkeys  to  the  good.  I  was 
now  becoming  fairly  wild  with  the  excitement.  What 
matter  if  I  had  been  taught  that  it  was  very  wicked  to 
shoot  for  turkeys,  when  there,  before  my  little  eyes,  was 
the  very  last  turkey  being  put  up — the  last  one — the  finest 


30  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

old  'gobbler'  of  the  lot?  Men,  I  couldn't  stand  it.  The 
temptation  was  too  great  for  my  young  sporting  blood.  I 
had  ten  cents,  and  took  a  chance.  Now  for  the  trial  of 
skill,  men  against  the  boy,  and  1  the  boy.  Excited  !  do  you 
ask?  Never  so  much  in  my  life,  before  or  since.  I 
couldn't  be  still.  Like  a  young  charger  going  into  his 
first  skirmish,  I  pranced  about,  awaiting  my  turn  to  shoot. 
Captain  Martin  let  off. 

"  'Good  shot,'  cried  the  marker.  Next,  Joe  Ritter  let 
fly,  and  missed  the  board  amid  cries  of  'Get  him  a  barn 
door.'  John  Milt  made  a  good  shot,  while  John  Flick 
cut  just  inside  of  Martin's  try.  But  when  Turm  Neff, 
who  had  just  arrived,  came  up  to  shoot,  everybody  as 
good  as  conceded  to  him  the  turkey,  he  being  the  best 
marksman  in  the  county,  with  perhaps  the  exception  of 
his  old  uncle,  Abe  Shockey,  the  deer  hunter  and  trapper. 
Turm  knew  that  there  was  very  little  space  for  a  ball 
being  placed  between  the  last  shot  and  the  centre.  He 
took  his  own  time,  and  when  he  fired  he  was  so  near 
the  'tack'  that  the  crowd  cried  out,  'Bawkman,  the  bird's 
yours,'  and  he  went  over  and  picked  it  up. 

"You  should  have  heard  them  all  laugh  when  I  piped 
out,  at  the  top  of  my  voice :  'Say,  I  hain't  shot  yit !' 

'  'Rube,  you  just  save  your  powder,  and  Turm  will  give 
you  the  "drumstick,"  won't  you  "Daddy"?'  (Turman 
had  no  end  of  nicknames.) 

( 'Yes,  Rube,  that's  a  nice  little  boy ;  you  may  shoot 
next  year.'  I  would  not  have  it  that  way,  as  I  knew 
that  I  could,  at  least,  beat  Joe  Ritter's  shot,  and  when 
I  insisted  they  let  me  shoot,  I  suppose  to  please  me.  I  had 
been  used  to  a  gun  ever  since  I  was  five  years  old — my 
earliest  prayer,  I  remember,  was  for  a  gun  and  a  drum. 
Everybody  was  now  on  tip-toe  of  excitement — the  novelty 
of  seeing  a  child  take  part  in  a  turkey  shooting  match — 


MY    FRIEND    BILL.  31 

and  that  child  the  son  of  a  deacon,  who  thought  every 
thing  was  wicked  that  had  the  smallest  mite  of  sport  in  it — 
was  great,  even  in  a  country  where  boys  were  taught  to 
use  firearms.  Being  'only  a  little  boy,'  they  let  me  'rest' 
my  gun  on  a  big  stone.  I  took,  oh !  such  good  aim,  held 
my  breath — and — pulled  the  trigger.  Whether  by  acci 
dent  or  actual  skill,  I — struck — the  very — centre,  and  won 
the  finest  turkey  of  the  day.  The  cheer  that  went  up  at 
my  supposed  fine  marksmanship  was  so  loud  that  it  woke 
up  my  conscience  to  the  enormity  of  the  crime  I  had  just 
committed.  Why  had  I  gambled,  and  won  a  turkey  at  a 
shooting  match?  I,  the  good  little  Sunday  school  boy, 
shooting  for  a  turkey !  I  remember  to  this  day  how  I 
felt  under  the  lashing  of  conscience  at  that  hour.  By  the 
time  conscience  had  me  thoroughly  worked  up  Cousin 
John  McDonald  came  over  to  where  I  stood  trembling 
with  my  prize. 

"  'Rube,'  said  he,  'I  want  that  turkey!' 

'  'You  shall  not  have  it,'  I  cried.     'It's  mine;  I  beat  all 
the  men  and  won  it  fairly.' 

"Do  you  believe  it,  John  wouldn't  even  argue  the  ques 
tion  with  me.  He  just  stood  there  and  said :  'Rube,  I  want 
that  turkey,  and  if  you  don't  give  it  to  me  I'll  tell  your 
father.'  Argument  was  not  necessary  after  that ;  John 
knew  it,  and  got  the  gobbler.  That's  the  only  time  I  re 
member  of  the  other  fellow  getting  the  turkey." 

After  this  they  used  every  night  to  call  for  more  country 
stories.  They  said  they  wanted  to  make  an  "after-dinner 
speaker"  out  of  me,  and  knew  no  better  way  of  giving  me 
practice.  I  have  thought  many  times  since  that  they  were 
only  wanting  to  have  "fun  with  me,"  as  Bill  would  say. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  they  were  very  kind,  and  always  listened 
when  I  told  them  of  the  country  and  its  people.  I  told 
them  my  notion  of  the  difference  between  the  country 


32  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

boy  and  the  city  boy.     I  talked  much  as  though  "speaking 
a  piece." 

"The  country  boy  is  born  and  "raised"  amid  surround 
ings  that  seldom  change.  Winter  follows  summer,  and 
summer  in  turn  follows  winter.  The  seed  is  sown  and  the 
harvest  is  gathered.  The  years  come  and  go,  one  so  like 
the  other  that  he  scarce  notes  their  flight.  He  sees  nothing 
new,  he  hears  nothing  new.  The  teacher  at  the  village 
school — and  usually  there  is  a  new  one  each  year — begins 
in  the  fall  and  gets  just  so  far  by  spring.  Next  year  it  is 
the  same  routine.  If  the  boy  has  learned  anything,  it  is  no 
credit  to  the  teacher,  but  in  spite  of  the  teacher,  who,  in 
many  cases,  has  taken  the  position  as  a  means  of  getting 
money  for  his  own  education — which  he  is  so  sadly  in  need 
of.  The  preacher  (this  refers  to  the  old  school,  not  the 
progressive  new)  he  has  to  listen  to,  or  be  "licked,"  is 
usually  one  who  can't  possibly  get  a  "call"  any  place  else. 
While  this  preacher  may  not  be  brilliant,  he  is  real  good — 
that's  all,  just  good — but,  oh,  how  long  he  can  preach,  as 
though  he  were  \vorking  by  the  hour  and  wanted  to  get  in 
all  the  time  he  could.  I  used  to  call  them  "opiates." 
Father  never  heard  me  call  them  that  but  once — that  once 
was  enough  for  me.  Ever  after  that  I  was  careful  to  see 
that  father  and  I  were  in  different  localities  when  I  had 
aught  to  say  on  the  subject  of  "opiates."  That  reminds 
me  of  how  angry  I  got  at  Bill  one  day.  He  and  I  were 
at  preaching,  it  was  in  about  the  third  hour  of  the  dis 
course,  when  he  woke  me  up  all  of  a  sudden  to  look  across 
at  Aunt  'Sinda,  who  was  sound  asleep.  It  was  very  mean 
of  Bill.  There  may  be  a  library  in  the  village,  near  by,  but 
the  book  that  passes  the  scrutiny  of  the  committee,  com 
posed  usually  of  the  preacher,  deacon  and  some  members 
of  the  sewing  circle,  is  not  one  to  make  a  boy  sit  up  o' 
nights  to  read. 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  33 

"I  must  not  forget  to  mention  the  "hired  hand."  He  is 
an  "institution"  in  country  life  that  must  not  be  passed 
lightly  over.  The  education  which  the  country  boy  gets 
at  this  "institution"  may  not  be  good,  but  it  is  very  lasting. 

The  "hired  hand"  is  never  happier  than  when  he  can  get 
a  boy  to  believe  his  stories.  My  experience  with  him  leads 
me  to  believe  that  Munchausen  was  a  "hired  hand."  I 
was  always  a  favorite  boy  with  him — the  "hired  hand," 
not  Munchausen.  He  told  me  many  strange  things  that 
occurred  in  "the  ould  counthry."  They  always  occurred 
away  off,  which  gave  them  added  wonderment  for  me. 
As  an  illustration  of  these  stories,  I  think  it  was  Dennis 
O'Donahue,  or — well,  I  am  sure  his  first  name  was  Dennis 
— who  told  me  about  how,  in  his  country,  there  was  a  law 
against  using  guns  to  hunt  with,  and  how  the  poor  people 
had  to  raise  "cat  burds"  and  hunt  with  them,  instead  of 
with  guns.  By  this  time  my  interest  was  at  its  height, 
and  I  wanted  to  know  how  they  raised  the  cat  birds.  Said 
Dennis : 

"Ye  first  make  a  nist  ov  sthraw,  nixt  ye  git  a  duzzin  aigs 
— bin's  aigs — thin  ye  git  a  noise,  gintle  cat,  and  aim  the 
aigs  sit  the  cat,  and  whin  the  aigs  hatch  out  ye  have  a  baste 
that  has  the  dubble  power  of  the  cat  and  the  burd — 'the 
burd  part  duz  the  flyin'  and  the  cat  part  duz  the  catchin' 
of  the  gaim,  and  there  ye  are.  It  bates  the  gun,  and  no 
law  agin  it." 

It  took  my  poor  little  hands  a  month  to  get  wrell  of  the 
scratches,  all  on  account  of  that  story.  I  remember  how 
I  spent  that  whole  afternoon  trying  to  induce  "Old  Tom"' 
to  sit,  but  "Old  Tom"  wasn't  a  "gintle  cat." 

******** 

Old  Mike— I  always  loved  Old  Mike.  That  is  what 
everybody  called  him,  almost  as  soon  as  he  came  to  live  at 
Highmont.  Some  said  it  was  because  there  was  another 
Mike  living  in  the  village,  but  I  never  thought  so.  At  first 


34 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


the  other  Mike  was  called  "Little  Mike,"  but  when  he 
grew  up  to  be  a  man  they  were  both  little,  and  the  name 
seemed  not  appropriate,  so  they  went  one  being  one  ''Old 
Mike"  and  the  other  "The  Other  Mike." 

When  I  was  young  I  was  very  good.  The  younger 
the  better  I  was.  I  used  to  try  to  get  the  hired  hands  to 
go  with  me  to  "meeting." 

I  never  succeeded  with  Old  Mike  but  once,  and  then  I 
remember  I  was  very  much  frightened  in  the  second  hour 
of  the  sermon.  The  preacher  was  on  the  subject  of  Sam 
son.  Now,  as  long1  as  he  talked  about  the  great  strength 
of  that  giant  it  was  all  right,  but  the  very  moment  he 
began  to  draw  comparisons  with  other  giants  I  could  see 
that  there  was  trouble  in  Old  Mike's  eye.  I  should  have 
spoken  of  a  peculiarity  of  some  of  the  old-school  expound 
ers.  They  thought,  to  be  impressive,  that  they  must  sing 
their  sermons.  This  particular  preacher  was  a  member  of 
that  school  in  good  standing-.  To  say,  however,  that  he 
sang  his  sermon  does  not  mean  that  he  had  a  musical 
voice ;  far  from  it.  He  rather  sang  it  on  a  tremolo  key 
with  a  rising  and  falling  inflection,  but  with  no  regularity 
of  tone  whatever — sort  of  a  "go  as  you  please"  style — but 
one  which  was  not  a  pleasing  style,  by  any  means. 

As  I  was  saying,  the  preacher  was  on  the  subject  of 
Samson.  He  was  going  along  somewhere  between  the 
gates  of  Gaza  and  the  hair  cut,  with  the  giant,  when  he 
stopped  to  dwell  on  the  great  strength  of  his  subject.  To 
make  it  more  impressive,  he  was  wont  to  repeat  a  good 
deal. 

"Yes,  dear  brethering,"  he  sang,  "Samsing  was  a  terri 
ble  giant.  Of  all  the  terrible  giants  that  ever  lived, 
Samsing  was  the  terriblest."  Old  Mike  grew  uneasy;  he 
seemed  about  to  get  up,  but  I  held  him  down  with  my  little 
hand  as  best  I  could,  while  the  preacher  went  on,  now 
fully  wrought  up  writh  his  subject: 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  35 

"Yes,  dear  brethering,  Samson  was  a  terrible  giant. 
Of  all  the  terrible  giants  that  ever  lived,  Samson  was  the 
terriblest.  He  could  take  all  the  other  giants  that  ever 
lived  and  handle  them  as  easy  as  a  schoolmarm  could 
handle  the  'baby  class.' ': 

This  was  too  much  for  Old  Mike's  loyalty  to  one  of  the 
giants  of  the  "ould  country."  He  jumped  up  on  the  seat, 
and,  trembling  with  rage,  told  the  preacher :  "That's  a  lie 
far  ye.  Thare's  Filly  Mackoo,  fram  the  Narth  of  Oire- 
land,  who  could  whup  hill's  blazes  out  of  him  in  wan 
minut,"  and  out  he  stalked,  pulling  me  after  him.  He 
never  would  go>  with  me  to  meeting  again  after  that. 

The  poor  man  died  last  summer.  Some  said  he  was  106 
years  old;  some  said  he  was  only  90.  His  own  family 
did  not  know,  but  nobody  ever  denied  that  he  was  "Old 
Mike." 

I  must  not  forget  "Brandy."  I  never  knew  why  they 
called  him  that,  but  "Brandy"  is  the  only  name  I  now  re 
member  as  belonging  to  him.  People  who  knew  said  he 
was  a  typical  Southern  darkey.  He  came  to  Highmont 
after  the  "wall."  Brandy  asked  me  one  day : 

"Rube,  du  yu  kno'  why  de  dahkies  nevah  gits  de  mania 
pouchey — de  delerium  tremblers?" 

"No,  Brandy,"  said  I,  "I  do  not." 

"Well,  Rube,  yu  see  it's  dis  way.  De  dahkies  da  dun 
drink,  and  da  drink,  and  da  drink,  but  jest  foh  da  gits  em 
clar  munny  gins  out  an'  da  dun  haf  tu  stop." 

I  used  to  think,  after  that,  that  Brandy  must  be  a  very 
rich  darkey. 

One  day  he  called  from  the  barn,  where  he  had  been 
sent  to  shovel  over  a  pile  of  wheat  that  was  in  danger  of 
"heating."  He  called  to  me:  "Rube,  wha's  dat  tarmil 
skupe  shuvul?"  "Wait  a  minute  till  I  think,"  said  I, 
trying  to  recall  where  it  had  been  left,  but  something  took 


36  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

my  attention  just  at  that  time.  I  forgot  all  abount  Brandy 
until  almost  night,  when  I  went  out  to  the  barn  and  found 
him  sound  asleep. 

"Here,  Brandy ;  wake  up.  What  have  you  been  doing 
all  the  afternoon  ?" 

"Massah  Rube,  I  wus  dun  waitin'  fob  yu  tu  fink,  jes' 
like  yu  dun  tole  me  tu." 

Then  there  was  Jake,  from  Holland.  Jake  told  us 
children  such  horrible  stories  about  Holland  that  I  have 
never  been  proud  of  my  great  grandmother's  native  home 
since,  But  Jake  went  to  Baltimore,  and  from  a  "hired 
hand"  he  became  a  millionaire,  so  I  have  long  ago  for 
given  him. 

Worse  than  hired  hands  are  the  hired  girls.  They  run 
to  witch  stories  and  are  never  happier  than  when  they 
can  get  the  country  boy  so  frightened  that  he  cannot  sleep. 
Her  stories  make  him  real  glad  that  they  once  burned 
witches  in  Salem. 

Now,  with  this  line  of  education,  is  it  any  wonder  that 
the  country  boy  is  not  up  to  date  ? 

On  the  other  hand,  is  the  city  boy.  All  I  know  of  him 
is  what  Bill  told  me.  Bill  says  he  is  brought  up  more  care 
fully  than  our  sweet  potato  plants  in  the  spring.  He  has  a 
nurse  to  watch  over  him  and  a  teacher  all  to  himself, 
who  has  nothing  to  do  but  just  see  that  his  A,  B,  C's  are 
correctly  learned.  He  is  sent  away  to  college,  where  he 
learns  football,  boxing,  rowing  and  other  branches,  and 
comes  out  a  polished  gentleman  and  joins  a  club  called  the 
Four  Hundred. 

I  was  greatly  surprised  one  clay  when  Bill  told  me  all 
these  things  about  the  city  boy,  to  have  him  finish  with : 
"But,  then,  most  of  the  great  men  of  New  York  city  were 
brought  up  in  the  country." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"Between  Ireland  and  the  Valley  of  Virginia,  New  York 
is  having  a  close  call." 

At  this  point  the  Biographer,  who  sat  over  at  a  side 
table,  became  very  enthusiastic  in  praise  of  the  "country 
bumpkin,"  as  the  smart  boarder  had  called  us.  The 
Biographer  had  been  a  country  boy  himself  and  had  much 
to  say  in  praise  of  him.  Said  he,  among  other  things : 

"The  most  remarkable  instance  I  know  is  of  a  large 
number  of  young  men  who  came  to  New  York  from  a 
little  town  in  the  Valley  of  Virginia. 

"So  many  had  left  the  village  that  those  few  who  re 
mained  were  as  popular  with  the  girls  as  the  man  at  a 
summer  resort. 

"They  came  to  this  great  city,  and  from  a  small  begin 
ning,  as  they  were  all  poor,  have  worked  their  way  up  to 
the  foremost  positions  in  finance,  commerce,  the  profes 
sions  and  politics — especially  politics — so  many  having 
already  become  leaders  and  Assemblymen  that  between 
Ireland  and  the  Valley  of  Virginia  New  York  is  having  a 
close  call. 

"I  would  speak  particularly  of  one  of  these  Virginians, 
who,  when  he  came,  was  very,  very  poor,  but  who  is  now 
a  millionaire,  and  known  throughout  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  country  as  'the  Merchant  Prince.' 

"Men  who  were  high  in  commercial  life  when  he  came 

37 


38  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

to  New  York,  and  who  refused  him  a  place,  have  since 
worked  for  him  as  clerks. 

"He  has  never  forgotten  his  old  home,  and  scarce  a 
year  passes  that  he  does  not  send  thousands  of  dollars,  for 
various  purposes,  to  Virginia. 

"Monuments  of  stone  and  marble  stand  to-day  in  many 
a  Southern  city  as  gifts  from  this  once  poor  country  boy, 
but  now  generous  man  of  wealth.  Nor  is  his  generosity 
bounded  by  a  Southern  line,  as  here  and  there  are  being 
placed  statues  of  enduring  bronze  in  many  of  our  North 
ern  parks. 

"The  declining  days  of  many  a  pensionless  old  soldier, 
if  it  were  known,  are  made  pleasant  days  by  this  success 
ful  man. 

"Yes,  Ruben,  your  friend  Bill  is  right.  Take  out  of  any 
city  the  country  boy,  with  his  bright,  cheery  push  and 
energy,  and  that  city  will  soon  lose  its  position  among  its 
sisters." 

This  speech  of  the  Biographer  quite  nettled  the  smart 
boarder,  a  young  doctor,  a  city-bred  man,  who  wanted  to 
know,  with  much  sarcasm  in  his  inquiry,  if  "our  late 
arrival" — meaning  me — "was  a  fair  specimen  of  the 
'genus  verd'?" 

Everybody  looked  at  me,  but  I  made  as  though  I  did  not 
understand  his  meaning,  and  made  no  reply  to  his  rude 
ness. 

This  doctor  was  ever  talking  about  the  great  advance 
ment  that  medicine  and  surgery  had  made,  and,  like  many 
other  people  who  talk  incessantly,  he  often  said  inappro 
priate  things. 

Just  after  his  "genus  verd"  speech  he  spoke  about  a 
new  discovery  of  medical  science,  and  told  us  how  that 
by  means  of  heat  and  steam  that  a  man  might  reduce  his 
weight.  The  idea  of  speaking  of  such  a  thing  at  a 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  39 

boarding-house.     Nobody  seemed  to  appreciate  it  but  the 
landlady,  who  smiled  pleased-like. 

I  thought  that  just  here  was  a  good  place  to  return  his 
rudeness,  so  I  said:  "Why,  that  is  nothing!  Everybody 
always  knew  that  a  doctor  could  make  a  man  'poorer/ 
even  without  doing  it  by  steam."  The  landlady  didn't 
smile,  but  the  rest  did,  and  I  felt  less  embarrassed  about 
the  doctor's  Latin,  which  ever  after  he  used  only  for 
medicinal  purposes. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"I  picked  him  up  easy  like  and  threw  Jiim  out  into  the 
road.     They  guessed  I  was  'real'  after  that." 

One  morning  I  asked  the  young  statesman,  to  whom  I 
had  taken  a  liking,  if  he  would  tell  me  how  I  could  find 
the  Bowery.  I  don't  know  why  the  question  should  have 
amused  him  so  much,  but  he  laughed  a  good  deal  before  he 
said :  "Ruben,  if  I  were  you  I  wouldn't  go  over  there 
alone."  But  he  told  me  the  way,  nevertheless,  and  I 
went  down  in  the  afternoon.  It  was  not  at  all  like 
Fifth  avenue.  I  could  not  have  believed  it  possible  that 
there  could  be  so  vast  a  difference  in  two  streets  of  the 
same  city. 

Jf  I  had  bought  clothes  at  every  place  where  I  was  in 
vited  in  I  could  have  stocked  four  stores  back  home. 
They  not  only  invited  me  in,  but  at  some  of  the  stores  the 
whole  family  came  out  and  insisted  on  taking  me  in  bodily, 
and  I  think  they  felt  really  offended  because  I  refused. 
But  I  was  firm ;  I  refused  them  all,  as  I  was  quite  well 
satisfied  with  my  own  home  suit. 

I  was  much  attracted  by  places  they  called  museums, 
where  they  had  more  strange  things  than  I  had  ever  heard 
of,  much  less  seen.  They  had  calves  with  more  heads 
than  they  could  possibly  use ;  snakes  larger  than  any  old 
"toper"  ever  dreamed  of;  monkeys  that  looked  enough 
like  Dennis  O'Donahue  to  have  been  his  own  brother; 
women  four  times  as  large  as  old  Mrs.  Smithers  at  home ; 
men  who  were  so  thin  that  they  rattled  \vhen  they  walked. 
I  asked  one  of  them  how  he  got  so  slender.  He  said  that 

40 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  41 

he  had  always  boarded  since  he  came  to  New  York,  but 
I  couldn't  see  what  that  had  to  do  with  it — I  guess  he 
couldn't  have  fully  understood  my  question. 

These  museums  nearly  all  had  Red  Jacket's  scalp,  and 
Tecumseh's  tomahawk ;  but  what  I  could  not  understand 
at  all  was  why  so  many  of  them  had  the  head  of  Guiteau, 
done  up  in  alcohol.  I  should  have  thought,  after  his  ter 
rible  deed,  that  he  would  have  been  satisfied  to  let  just 
one  of  them  have  it ;  but  it  was  in  all  of  them,  nearly  as 
large  as  life,  each  with  a  certificate  from  Guiteau  himself 
that  "this  is  my  head — the  only  genuine  one  in  town." 

I  forgot  to  say  that  I  did  not  have  to  pay  a  cent  to  get 
in  any  of  the  museums,  and  I  certainly  must  have  seen 
them  all.  When  I  would  come  up  in  front  of  one  of  them 
and  stop,  the  crowd  that  followed  me  from  one  to  the 
other  always  stopped,  too.  The  fellow  at  the  door — I 
didn't  know  any  of  them  from  Adam — would  always  say : 
"Rube,  step  right  in ;  I  heard  you  was  comin'."  All  I 
had  to  do  was  to  walk  in.  The  crowd  that  was  along, 
however,  had  to  pay.  One  or  two  of  the  fellows  who 
were  following  along  wanted  to  know  if  I  was  "real." 
That  was  the  queerest  question  I  ever  had  put  to  me. 
"Of  course  I  am  real,"  I  answered,  indignantly. 

At  one  of  these  museums  they  had  a  regular  school 
exhibition — only  they  didn't  speak  real  pieces  or  have 
nice  dialogues — like  we  had  at  Robbin's  Exhibition. 
They  just  sang  the  silliest  songs  I  had  ever  heard,  and 
said  in  a  number  of  places,  and  in  sub-cellar  voices,  that 
"the  villain  still  pursued  her."  If  "her"  was  anything 
like  those  I  saw  on  the  platform,  I  would  have  been  sorry 
for  the  villain.  I  never  saw  such  dressing,  or  the  lack 
of  it,  rather.  Some  of  the  girls  who  took  part  didn't  have 
any  skirt  dresses  on  at  all,  and  what  they  did  wear  was 
as  tight  as  a  hunter's  buckskin  suit  after  a  hard  rain. 


42  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

Why,  I  just  had  to  turn  my  head  away  until  I  got  used 
to  it — which  must  have  taken  me  two  or  three  minutes. 

What  took  my  attention  most  of  all  \vas  a  big  "rassler" 
they  had.  That  fellow  could  throw  down  every  one  who 
would  wrestle  with  him.  The  man  who  ran  the  exhibi 
tion  came  out  to  the  edge  of  the  platform  after  the  wrest 
ler  had  thrown  every  one  down  he  could  get  hold  of. 
Said  he  :  "Ladies  and  gentlemen — Professor  Throwum, 
whom  you  see  before  you  to-day  is  the  champeen  rasler 
of  New  York  city.  He  expected  the  champeen  of  Wee- 
hawkin  this  afternoon,  but  we  have  just  received  a  tele 
gram  that  he  had  missed  the  ferry  boat  and  that  he  cannot 
reach  here  in  time.  We  are  very  sorry,  but  rather  than 
to  disappoint  yon,  the  management  has  concluded  to  offer 
ten  dollars  to  the  man  whom  the  professor  cannot  throw 
down  in  four  minutes,  and  to  make  it  fifteen  dollars  if 
the  man  can  throw  the  professor."  The  whole  house — 
and  it  was  nearly  full — rose  up  to  cheer.  I  felt  my  blood 
boil.  I,  the  champion  of  Highmont  and  vicinity,  I  just 
held  on  to  the  bench  and  never  said  a  word,  but  wThen 
that  fellow  who>  ran  the  show  came  out  again  and  said, 
"I  guess  you  women  are  all  cowards,"  I  just  couldn't 
stand  it,  and  got  right  up.  They  all  knew7  me,  somehow, 
and  cried  out :  "Reuben,  go  up  and  get  your  fifteen 
dollars." 

I  went — I  could  take  no  dare  like  that.  The  man  up 
there  turned  to  the  crowd  of  people  and  asked :  "Has 
this  boy  any  friends  here?" 

"Yes;  we  are  all  his  friends." 

"No,  I  don't  mean  that.  Has  he  any  relatives  to  look 
after  him  after  the  Professor  gets  through  with  him? 
No  one?  Well,"  then  to  me,  "my  dear  young  man,  to 
what  address  will  we  send  you  ?  Have  you  any  choice 
of  hospital?" 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  43 

I  knew  that  he  was  only  trying  to  scare  me,  so  I  told 
him :  "I  will  not  trouble  you  to  send  me  to  any  of  them, 
as  they  are  not  looking  for  me  to-day." 

At  that  the  crowd  stood  right  up  and  shook  hands  with 
itself,  and  said  :  "Reuben,  you're  game  !''  All  this  while 
I  was  looking  at  the  Professor  to  see  how  large  he  was. 
He  was  smaller  but  much  heavier  than  I.  I  run  to  length. 
People  used  to  call  me  Abe — because,  as  they  said,  I 
looked  so  much  like  Abe  Lincoln,  only  that  I  was  not  so 
good  looking  as  Abe. 

The  manager  began  again :  "Is  there  an  insurance 
agent  in  the  house?  If  so,  please  step  up  and  write  a 
policy  for  our  brave  young  friend.  None  here?  Then> 
Ruben,  you  will  have  to  carry  your  own  risk." 

"None  to  carry,"  I  told  him,  and  the  crowd  was  with 
me.  When  he  called  "Ready!"  I  never  saw  as  quick  a 
man  in  my  life  as  that  Professor.  He  had  hold  of  me, 
and  before  I  knew  what  he  was  doing  he  nearly  had  me 
off  my  feet ;  but  I  soon  got  myself  righted,  and  in  order 
that  I  might,  at  least,  be  sure  of  the  ten  dollars,  I  did 
nothing  for  the  first  four  minutes,  except  to  keep  him 
from  throwing  me.  The  man  with  the  watch  cheated  me 
out  of  one  minute,  but  the  crowd  made  such  an  outcry 
against  it  that  he  had  to  call  "Time !"  and  they  made  him 
pay  me  the  money  on  the  spot.  I  wanted  to  stop  at  that, 
but  the  crowd  would  not  hear  to  it.  They  had  been  so 
friendly  toward  me  that  I  felt  to  quit  would  be  treating 
them  unfairly.  So  I  told  the  manager  that,  "I  will  only 
take  the  other  five  dollars  to  please  my  friends." 

"Young  man,  your  friends  will  be  a  good  deal  harder 
to  please  than  you  think  for."  He  did  not  speak  with  the 
same  loud  tone  that  he  had  used  before.  Again, 
"Ready!"  This  time  I  was  watching. 

During  the  five  minutes  we  had  wrestled  I  had  caught 


44  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

most  of  the  Professor's  trips,  and  found  that  he  did  not 
know  the  one  we  used  back  home.  We  had  not  been  to 
gether  much  over  half  a  minute  when  I  used  the  "grape 
vine"  on  him.  Here's  where  my  long  legs  came  into 
play.  I  caught  him  so  quick  that  he  could  not  gather 
hirrfself,  and  threw  him  so  hard  that  I  was  really  scared. 
Would  you  believe  it — the  crowd  wanted  to  get  on  the 
platform  with  me !  They  were  standing  on  top  of  the 
seats  and  trying  to  lift  the  very  roof  with  their  voices. 
Robbin's  Exhibition  was  no  comparison  to  this  one  for 
real,  downright  enjoyment  for  the  crowd,  if  one  were  to 
judge  by  the  noise  they  made;  and  that  Robbin's  affair, 
too — the  one  great  event  from  which  all  Highmont  enter 
tainments  have  dated  and  been  compared — quite  the  finest 
thing  that  ever  happened  in  all  those  parts.  Of  course, 
I  don't  mean  to  say  that  this  Bowery  exhibition  was  as 
good — I  only  say  that  there  was  more  noise  and  appear 
ance  of  enjoyment.  When  the  man  gave  me  the  other 
five  dollars  he  said  that  if  I  would  come  and  "rassel"  every 
day  he  would  pay  me  fifty  dollars  a  week  and  one  "benefit'' 
a  month.  "Now,  while  that  seemed  a  fortune  to  me,  I 
had  to  tell  him  that  I  had  not  come  to  New  York  to 
"rassel,"  but  to  find  my  friend  Bill.  The  crowd  wanted 
to  know  if  I  were  going  to  the  "hospital,"  and  if  I  wanted 
to  "get  my  life  insured,"  or  if  I  had  any  "relative"  to  look 
after  me.  The  man  did  not  take  nearly  so  much  interest 
in  all  this  as  he  did  when  he  was  doing  the  talking.  I 
had  only  wrestled  to  learn  some  new  trips — I  learned  a 
number. 

I  was  going  along  quietly  about  five  o'clock — sort  o' 
Between  museums,  as  it  were — when  a  young  man  stepped 
up  to  me  from  a  saloon  door  and  said :  "Say,  young 
feller,  we're  onto  yer.  Now  git  out."  I  told  him  that 
T  guessed  he  wasn't  onto  me,  and  that  if  he  was  he  had 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  45 

better  get  off  before  I  found  it  out.  At  that  the  crowd 
laughed.  He  got  very  angry,  and  without  the  least  provo 
cation  went  as  though  he  would  hit  me ;  but  I  picked  him 
up,  easy  like,  and  threw  him  out  into  the  road  and  walked 
on.  I  wanted  to  know  if  there  was  anybody  else  "onto" 
me,  but  there  didn't  seem  to  be  any,  so  I  walked  on  to 
the  next  museum.  As  I  went  along,  after  I  had  tossed 
the  fellow  out  into  the  road,  I  heard  several  of  my  '"fol 
lowers"  say,  "I  guess  he  is  real." 

That  night  at  the  supper  table  I  told  all  about  my  ex 
periences  of  the  afternoon,  and  they  were  greatly  inter 
ested. 

A  very  thin-looking  young  man  at  the  end  of  the  table, 
who  had  not  spoken  before,  asked  in  a  very  gentle,  clear 
voice :  "I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  sir,  but  what  did 
I  understand  you  to  say  you  had  earned  with  five  and 
three-quarters  minutes  of  actual  effort?"  I  told  him  that 
I  had  been  paid  fifteen  dollars. 

"And  pardon  me  further,"  said  he;  "wThat  did  you  say 
•they  had  offered  you  for  each  week?" 

"Fifty  dollars  a  week,"  said  I,  "and  only  fifteen  minutes' 
work  twice  a  clay,  and  something  they  called  a,  'benefit' 
once  a  month  if  I  would  stay  three  months."  He  did  not 
address  me  further,  but  I  heard  him  say  to  the  man  sitting 
beside  him :  "I  fear  I  have  missed  my  calling." 

The  Statesman  told  me  the  next  morning  that  but  little 
was  known  of  this  young  man,  further  than  that  he  had 
graduated  a  few  months  before  at  one  of  the  great  colleges 
of  the  country,  and  that  he  had  been  what  was  known  as 
"medal  man."  He  took  all  the  prizes,  and  was  a  very 
great  favorite  at  the  college.  The  newspapers  all  said 
when  he  graduated  that  "His  future  is  assured." 

"He  came  to  New  York,"  said  the  Statesman,  "and  has 
boarded  here  ever  since.  For  three  months  now  he  eats 


46  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

but  one  meal  a  day,  and  the  landlady — good  soul  that 
she  is ! — says  that  for  the  past  two  months  he  has  paid 
her  nothing,  but  that  he  will,  as  he  is  'so  good.'  Nobody 
knows  what  he  does,  but  we  do  notice  him  growing  frailer 
each  week,  and  his  cheeks  more  sunken."  Really,  I  was 
so  sorry  for  him  that  I  could  hardly  keep  the  tears  from 
my  eyes  when  I  heard  this  about  him.  When  he  came  to 
supper  next  day  I  met  him  in  the  hallway,  and  told  him 
that  when  I  made  any  money  real  easy  that  I  had  a  habit 
of  giving  it  away  to  the  first  man  who  took  my  fancy, 
and  asked  him  if  he  \vould  let  me  give  him  the  fifteen 
dollars  I  had  made  in  five  and  three-quarters  minutes. 
I  said  that  if  he  refused  I  would  be  put  to  the  trouble 
of  finding  some  one  else  to  give  it  to. 

"My  dear  friend,  I  cannot  take  this  money  as  a  gift, 
and  I  have  nothing  to  give  you  in  exchange  for  it — no, 
I  cannot  accept  it." 

"I'll  tell  you  how  we  can  fix  that.  I  will  loan  it  to 
you,  and  take  your  note,  and  you  can  pay  it  when  you 
can."  He  gave  me  his  note,  which  I  tore  up  when  he 
was  not  looking,  and  threw  it  into  the  fire.  The  States 
man  said  afterward :  "The  preacher  must  have  'struck 
it/  as  he  has  paid  the  landlady  some  money ;"  but  I  never 
said  a  word. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"A  debt  of  honor  lias  no  limitation." 

The  bald-headed  Broker  told  me  one  day  that  he  would 
like  to  help  the  "preacher,"  as  he  called  the  "medal  man," 
but  that  his  experience  in  giving  money  to  help  "deserv 
ing  (?)  persons"  had  been  very  unsatisfactory — that  very 
few  of  all  the  number  were  worthy  of  even  a  passing 
notice.  I  said  something  about  the  "bread  on  the  water" 
story. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "and  if  you  keep  it  up  you  will  find 
it  all  end  in  a  'bread  and  water'  story."  I  felt  like  calling 
him  a  heartless,  cruel  man ;  but  he  told  me  some  of  his 
experience  in  helping  people. 

He  said  that  he  had  been  what  the  boys  call  "a  real 
good  thing,"  and  that  they  had  "pushed  him  along." 

"I  think,"  said  he,  beginning  as  though  to  tell  a  story 
to  excuse  himself  for  his  heartlessness,  "it  must  have 
been  in  about  188 — .  I  was  then  on  Twenty-fourth  street. 
At  the  same  place  where  I  boarded  was  a  young  man  from 
my  own  home  in  the  West — Ohio.  He  was  studying 
medicine.  Three  days  before  he  was  to  graduate  I  missed 
him.  Nobody  knew  where  Dan  was,  and  yet  all  of  us 
wondered  not  a  little,  as  we  felt  the  time  was  short.  Dan 
was  not  a  regular  drinker,  but  would  occasionally  take  a 
day  or  two  'off.'  The  night  before  graduating  day  a  mes 
senger  brought  me  a  badly-foiled  envelope.  I  opened  it 

47 


48  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

and  found  what  was  meant  to  be  a  letter.     By  great  and 
persevering  effort  I  made  out  the  following: 

'  'Shay — fer  shee  good  name — your  home — cum  an'  git 
me — 'Few  dont  cum  en  git  me — an  fix — me — up — we  are 
lost — termorrer's  zee  day — 'few  ony  cum  an  git  me  I'le 
bles  you  til  dyin  day — an  pay  you  back — ever  cent — hav 

spent  all  my  mony — a'nt  got  a  d cent — left.     Am  at 

Odermans — up  stairs — back  rum — god  sake — cum  an  git 
me — an — cum  quik ' 

"There  was  no  name  to  it,  but  I  knew  it  was  from 
Dan.  Say,  Ruben,  if  you  had  seen  him  you  would  have 
been  touched — I  was,  to  the  extent  of  $40.  He  was  a 
sight.  I  had  to  take  him,  and  get  him  clothes  from  top 
to  toe — fixed  him  all  up,  and  he  graduated  with  honors, 
as  he  was  a  brilliant  man,  handsome  as  a  Greek  god,  and 
a  genial  good  fellow  when  himself.  He  got  a  position  at 
once  in  the  greatest  asylum  up  the  State." 

"Did  he  pay  you  back  the  $40?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  said  he.  "I  was  then  rich,  and  did  not  need  it. 
Years  later  I  met  with  reverses,  and  wrote  to  Dan  for 
the  money — he  having  prospered.  I  explained  my  situa 
tion,  and  that  I  was  actually  in  sore  need  of  the  money. 
Imagine  my  feelings  when  he  wrote  back :  'Your  claim 
is  outlawed  by  the  statute  of  limitation.' 

"All  I  could  reply  to  that  was :  'Dan,  a  debt  of  honor 
has  no  limitation ;'  but  he  never  wrote  to  me  again.  The 
'bread'  has  never  'returned,'  though  'many  days'  have 
passed,  and  some  of  them  very  hungry  ones." 

I  had  nothing  to  say,  but  wondered  if  there  were  many 
like  Dan.  I  asked  him  if  his  experience  as  Good  Sa 
maritan  had  always  been  ill. 

"Few  exceptions.  Why.  I  once  saved  a  young  man's 
life  who  was  sick  unto  death  in  a  boarding  house.  I  took 
him  to  a  hospital,  and  had  him  placed  in  a  private  room, 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  49 

and  paid  liberally  that  he  might  have  the  best  of  care. 
He  got  well,  after  weeks  of  delirium.  He,  too,  prospered, 
but  has  not  only  not  repaid  me  the  expenses  of  his  illness, 
but  has  since  defrauded  me  out  of  thousands  of  dollars 
himself  and  made  it  possible  for  me  to  lose  thousands 
more  through  others.  But,  Ruben,  lest  you  think  that  all 
the  world  is  bad,  with  no  good  in  it,  I  will  tell  you  of 
an  exception  in  my  varied  experience,  which  has  always 
been  to  me  a  source  of  pleasure.  I  was  at  college  in 

D ,  Ohio.     In  the  winter  of  1866,  near  the  middle  of 

the  term,  one  of  the  boys,  who  knew  me  well,  said :  'I 
will  have  to  give  up — my  money  is  all  gone.'  Being 
young  and  with  a  rich  father,  I  could  not  appreciate  what 
it  meant  to  reach  the  end  of  one's  means. 

"  'Why  don't  you  send  home  for  more?'  I  asked. 
"  I  have  no  place  to  send.  I  am  all  alone  in  the  world.' 
Well,  we  were  soon  a  committee  of  ways  and  means,  and 
by  next  day  we  found  that  $27  would  buy  a  complete 
stencil  'outfit.'  I  took  cheap  quarters,  'boarded  myself,' 
and  thus  saved  out  of  my  allowance  the  $27  which  WTC 
had  at  once  sent  away  for  the  'outfit.'  it  came.  The 
boys  who,  for  'advertising  purposes,'  had  been  let  into 
the  scheme,  all  needed  'stencil  plates,'  and  he  was  soon 
making  money.  He  went  through  college  and  graduated 
with  honor,  as  he  was  a  remarkably  fine  student.  He 
traveled  in  Europe  to  study  its  educational  systems,  pay 
ing  his  way  with  his  pen.  He  was  a  brilliant  writer,  and 
found  no  trouble  in  the  sale  of  his  'European  articles.' 
On  his  return  to  America,  he  sent  me  the  old  loan,  with 
compound  interest.  To-day  he  is  one  of  the  big  educators 
of  this  country,  and  I  am  proud  of  him." 

"And  again,  Ruben,"  continued  the  broker,  "I  call  to 
mind  another  instance  for  the  credit  side.  This  story  has 
in  it  a  bit  of  romance. 


50  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

''Like  yourself,  I  was  reared  in  the  country.  Several 
miles  from  the  home  place  my  father  owned  another  farm, 
to  which  we  used  often  to  go.  We  had  to  pass  through 
a  lane  off  from  the  main  road  to  reach  it.  Beside  this 
lane  stood  a  log  cabin.  I  used  often  to  watch  a  large 
family  of  children  playing  about  it.  Among  the  number 
was  one  in  particular — a  little  girl.  She  was  not  like  the 
rest.  She  cared  not  for  dolls  and  toys  which  other  chil 
dren  loved.  She  was  ever  drawing  pictures,  and,  not 
knowing  anything  about  paints,  she  used  as  colors  the 
juices  of  berries  and  flowers. 

"Her  work,  for  a  child,  was  so  remarkable  that  I  took 
an  interest  in  her.  I  found  for  her,  at  a  near-by  town, 
a  drawing  teacher.  Her  progress  was  so  rapid  that  she 
soon  had  learned  all  that  this  teacher  could  impart.  She 
had  learned,  however,  much  of  the  principle  of  drawing, 
and  worked  on  at  her  home.  When  she  grew  older  I  sent 
her  away  to  a  great  city,  where  she  became  an  artist  o>f 
note.  She  painted  for  me  many  pictures  'in  part  pay 
ment,'  as  she  used  often  to  say.  Those  pictures  I  shall 
always  keep. 

"I  told  you  there  was  a  romance  connected  with  this 
story.  There  was  to  be  in  the  great  city  an  exhibition  of 
paintings.  Artists  from  many  States  brought  their  pro 
ductions.  My  protege  was  of  the  number.  Her  work 
attracted  much  attention.  During  the  thronged  hours  it 
was  hard  to  get  near  her  masterpiece.  The  subject  of 
this  was  a  simple  one.  but.  oh,  how  she  had  brought  out 
the  detail !  As  you  looked  at  it.  you  could  almost  see 
the  children  move  who  were  playing  about  a  little  log 
cabin  that  stood  beside  a  narrow  lane.  At  the  gate  leaned 
a  young  man  watching  the  children  at  play.  Yes,  Ruben, 
the  face  of  the  young  man  might  have  been  taken  for 
mine  when  I  was  younger.  But  to  the  romance.  A  very 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  51 

wealthy  gentleman  from  an  adjoining  State  purchased  the 
picture,  paying  for  it  a  large  sum.  He  sought  out  the 
artist,  and — well,  my  protege  is  now  his  wife. 

"The  only  thing  she  has  to  remind  her  of  the  log  cabin 
is  the  masterpiece,  which  hangs  in  the  art  gallery  of  her 
palatial  home." 

I  just  felt  that  these  two  stories  made  up  for  many 
"Dans,"  and  I  was  glad  I  had  given  the  fifteen  dollars 
to  the  poor  young  man. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"Feed  a  hungry  man  and  he  will  feel  grateful  to  you  till 
his  appetite  is  gone." 

The  bald-headed  broker  was  a  queer  combination.  He 
was  a  success  and  yet  a  failure.  If  the  enterprise  de 
pended  on  his  own  effort,  he  succeeded,  as  nothing  could 
daunt  him  or  turn  him  aside  from  the  object  in  view,  but 
the  moment  he  had  to  depend  upon  another  the  enterprise 
would  fail — seemingly  no  reason  for  it,  but  it  would  fail. 
There  was  nothing  too  large  for  him  to  attempt,  and  he 
was  never  caught  unaware.  He  might  go  to  a  capitalist 
with  a  proposition  requiring  a  few  thousand  dollars,  and 
when  told  that,  "We  do  not  entertain  anything  so  small 
as  that,"  he  would  at  once  offer  one  requiring  millions  and 
show  its  feasibility.  I  used  often  to  think  he  had  little 
to  encourage  him,  yet  he  was  always  cheerful.  "Look  on 
the  bright  side,"  he  would  say;  "and,  like  the  late  'Brick' 
Pomeroy,  if  you  have  no  bright  side,  take  a  white-wash 
brush  and  paint  one.  Many  times  I  have  run  out  of  paint 
or  worn  the  brush  to  the  very  wood,  and  had  nothing  but 
the  black  wall  to  look  upon,  and  yet  before  it  got  all  dark 
a  little  ray  of  sunshine  would  come,  and  I  was  again 
happy." 

One  of  his  enterprises  has  since  succeeded,  and  he  is 
once  more  very  rich,  but  he  is  the  same  genial  man,  writh 
a  kind  word  for  the  most  lowly.  Some  of  the  boys  say 
that  he  is  again  "a  real  good  thing,"  but  they  also  say 

52 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  53 

that  they  can't  "push  him  along"  like  they  used  to.  When 
he  regained  his  fortune  he  took  great  pleasure  in  going 
about  paying  back,  sometimes  ten-fold,  for  favors  shown 
him  when  he  was  "down."  He  told  me  one  time,  how 
ever,  that  he  soon  got  around,  and  that  it  had  cost  him 
a  very  little  money. 

The  adversities  of  this  quaint  man  had  made  him  a  bit 
of  a  philosopher.  He  used  often  to  invite  me  to  his  room 
to  talk.  Why  I  do  not  know ;  but  he  seemed  never  to 
tire  of  having  me  with  him.  I  would  from  time  to  time 
jot  down  the  short,  quaint  sentences  with  which  his  con 
versation  was  full.  These  gems  of  philosophy  always 
fitted  in.  I  have  often  since  thought  that  he  felt  I  needed 
advice,  and  took  this  means  of  giving  it  from  his  own 
full  experience.  Here  are  a  few  illustrations  which  I 
find  among  my  memoranda  : 

"Ruben,  many  a  man,  famous  in  some  inland  city,  finds 
himself  dwindle  into  insignificance  on  coming  to  New 
York  city — the  great  Mental  Cemetery  of  America. 

"Make  few  friends  and  acquaintances ;  the  latter  will 
use  you  in  their  need,  and  the  former  will  forget  you  in 
your  adversity. 

"The  man  you  may  help  in  poverty  will  not  remember 
you  in  his  prosperity. 

"Boast  not  of  wealth ;  it  creates  jealousy  in  the  rich  and 
envy  in  the  poor,  and  only  makes  of  you  a  mark  for  the 
designing  'sharper.' 

"Never  borrow  a  dollar — the  lender  will  own  you  for 
all  time. 

"Ruben,  you  will  find  New  York  a  city  of  shams.  You 
may  see  the  millionaire  clad  as  an  old  farmer,  and  many 
a  youth  living  on  a  few  cents  a  day  in  full  dress  of  an 
evening  at  some  free  entertainment,  putting  on  all  the 
'airs'  of  a  prosperous  man. 


54 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


"It  is  not  the  coat  that  makes  the  man.  Many  a  large, 
flashy  tie  covers  a  torn  bosom. 

"Prove  all  you  hear.  The  most  valuable  bits  of  infor 
mation  are  often  about  things  that  never  happened. 

"Lend  a  dollar  this  week,  and  the  borrower  will  be 
angry  at  you  if  you  do  not  lend  him  two  next. 

"Feed  a  hungry  man,  and  he  will  feel  grateful  to  you 
until  his  appetite  is  gone. 

"What  you  learn,  learn  thoroughly.  Half  knowledge 
often  marks  the  ignorant  person. 

"Never  accept  a  free  ticket  from  an  actor.  The  sup 
pers  he  will  'play',  you  for  it  would  pay  for  a  box.'' 

Oh,  how  well  I  could  appreciate  this  last  "gem !"  The 
remembrance  of  the  ticket  that  the  young  actor  (?)  had 
once  given  me  came  vividly  up  before  me.  I  thought  of 
the  many  suppers  I  had  given  him  since  for  that  one 
ticket,  and  yet  when  I  think  of  how  I  did  enjoy  that  play 
— the  very  first  I  had  ever  seen — I  can't  feel  that  I  paid 
too  much  for  it.  It  was  a  new  life  to  me,  that  play — it 
was  so  real.  The  only  thing  that  marred  the  pleasure  of 
the  play  was  that  "actor."  He  had  gone  with  me,  as  he 
said,  to  explain  it,  but  I  soon  found  that  his  explanation 
only  spoiled  it  for  me.  I  might  be  in  the  very  middle 
of  a  good  cry  at  the  misfortunes  of  some  person  on  the 
stage,  when  he  would  try  to  affect  an  entrance  in  my  side 
by  means  of  a  very  sharp  elbow,  and  then  go  on  to  tell 
me  how  much  better  he  could  have  played  the  part — "far 
better  than  that  'gilly'  on  the  stage!''  To  him  all  the 
actors  were  a  "set  of  gillies,  anyhow."  The  only  gratifi 
cation  I  ever  got  out  of  the  matter  was  to  know  that  the 
nearest  he  ever  came  to  doing  anything  on  the  stage  was 
that  he  finally  got  a  position  as  scene  shifter  in  an  "East 
Side"  theatre. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"Don't  frown;  it  winkles   the  face.     Better  wrinkle  it 
with  a  smile,  if  yon  are  determined  to  wear  wrinkles." 

We  called  him  Knickerbocker,  as  no  one  at  the  house 
knew  his  name.  He  associated  with  no  one,  and  seldom 
spoke  to  any  one.  He  took  no  part  in  the  table  talk,  and 
seemed  to  be  happy  only  when  let  alone.  He  appeared  to 
belong  to  another  generation — one  long  passed.  He  was 
old,  yet  young.  His  hair  was  white,  though  his  handsome 
face  was  that  of  a  man  of  thirty  years  or  under.  Even 
a  recluse  will  talk  at  times.  The  subject  which  unlocked 
his  lips  was,  "The  society  of  to-day." 

"There  is  no  society  to-day,"  said  he.  ''There  are  none 
of  the  'old  families'  of  New  York  left.  All  now  are  of 
the  'nauvoo  reech.'  When  I  was  in  society" — with  a 
marked  emphasis  on  the  "I"-  -"Second  avenue  was  the 
fashionable  centre — the  great  promenade.  Of  an  evening 
you  would  see  the  gentlemen  and  ladies  out  walking,  the 
ladies  with  their  hair  streaming  down  their  backs,  wearing 
black  mantillas  over  their  heads.  The  gentlemen  never 
thought  of  calling,  save,  in  a  carriage.  If  a  gentleman 
took  a  lady  to  the  theatre  he  always  furnished  the  flowers 
and  her  gloves.  Society  was  governed  only  by  Family — 
then.  Money  had  nothing  to  do  with  position.  No,  there 
is  no  society  to-day.  I  never  go  out  any  more.  I  have 
not  gone  out  for  years.  I  feel  all  alone." 

55 


56  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

He  was.  Xo  one  cared  whether  he  came  or  stayed 
away. 

I  could  not  help  asking:  "Mr.  Knickerbocker,  where 
does  what  you  call  Society  begin?  How  many  genera 
tions  does  it  take  to  make  a  gentleman  or  a  lady?  The 
sending  of  flowers  and  the  buying  of  the  lady's  gloves  is 
custom.  If  custom  changed,  it  would  then  be  improper. 
As  well  say  that,  as  the  Bowrery  was  then  the  great  prome 
nade,  it  should  be  so  to-day.  By  your  view  of  Society, 
the  man  who,  without  any  assistance,  works  himself  up 
from  a  lowly,  but  respectable  origin,  and  gains  riches,  and 
by  study  and  observation  acquires  all  the  accomplishments 
which  the  best  people  in  the  land  say  are  the  correct  cus 
toms  to  observe,  is  not  a  gentleman  because  he  hasn't 
'family' — because  his  father  before  him  had  not  done  the 
same  things."  I  had  talked  on  at  length  because  he  did 
not  deign  to  reply  to  any  of  my  questions  or  comments. 
He  simply  looked  at  me  as  beneath  his  notice.  This  made 
me  a  little  angry.  I  tried  to  be  sarcastic.  I  said:  "I 
once  knew  of  a  father  who  drove  his  own  'four-in-hand' 
to  a  carriage,  lived  in  his  own  palace,  and  led  the  'world 
of  fashion.'  His  son  after  him  drove  'two-in-hand'  to 
a.  truck  ;  and,  I  suppose  simply  because  the  truck  belonged 
to  some  one  else,  he  was  known  and  treated  as  a  'hired 
hand.'  His  'old  family  tree'  cut  no  figure  whatever.  Yes, 
Mr.  Knickerbocker,  I  guess  that  you  are  right — there  is 
no  Society  to-day,  if  a  man  may  be  called  a  gentleman 
solely  because  his  father  before  him  was  one.  That  which 
has  taken  the  place  of  'Society'  demands  that  the  person 
must  have  more  than  mere  'family'  to  warrant  a  place 
among  the  best  people — call  the  'best'  whatever  you  will." 

Mr.  Knickerbocker,  at  that,  replied  in  the  same  vein. 
His  first  question  was  meant  to  be  crushing — short  and 
conclusive,  even  scornful.  ""What  do  vou  know  about 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  57 

Society — what  the  'best'  demand — you,  whose  knowledge 
of  the  'best'  was  gained,  no  doubt,  in  the  'corner  grocery 
store'  of  some  back-woods  country  village,  where  the  great 
burden  of  conversation  is :  'What's  Bush  on  goin'  ter 
plant  in  ther  hill  field  by  them  woods?'  or  'Have  yer  heard 
thet  Luis  Miller  run  a  splinter  in  his  thumb?'  '" 

"That  is  correct,"  said  I.  "I  know  very  little  about  the 
customs  of  'the  best' — in  fact,  nothing,  except  what  Bill 
has  told  me.  Bill  goes  out  sometimes.  He  says  he  sees 
the  very  old  society  in  society,  and  some  of  the  new  of 
New  York.  He  told  me  once  how  that  he  called  on  one 
of  the  very,  very  old  families,  who  had  been  Dutch  so 
far  back  that  the  very  records  were  gone  to  decay.  He 
spent  an  evening  at  this  house,  and  the  burden  of  con 
versation  in  this  case,  Bill  said,  wras  the  illness  of  one  of 
their  dogs — an  insignificant  cur  that  lay  on  the  floor.  I 
may  be  deficient  in  taste,  but  give  me  'the  corner  grocery,' 
for  Bushon  will  get  his  'field'  planted,  and  Miller's  thumb 
will  get  well,  but  the  'cur'  of  the  very  old  'family'  may 
hang  on  for  many  years." 

Mr.  Knickerbocker  was  very  silent  thereafter — more  so 
than  ever.  I  could  but  think  that  had  he  taken  conditions 
as  they  exist,  he  had  been  far  happier — especially  had  he 
done  his  part  toward  trying  to  make  the  world  better, 
rather  than  to  exclude  himself  from  it  because  it  was  not 
as  he  had  once  known  it.  I  remarked  to  the  Reporter, 
who  sat  at  my  left — speaking  low  like :  "I  must  have 
seen  some  of  the  'old  society'  promenading  on  the  Bowery 
the  day  I  was  over.  The  ladies  were  wearing  their  hair 
'hanging  down  their  backs/  but  they  wore  no  'mantillas.' ': 
The  Reporter  asked  me  the  color  of  their  hair.  When  I 
told  him,  he  merely  said :  "No,  these  could  not  have  been 
any  of  the  old  families — the  color  was  too  golden."  Just 
as  thousfh  the  color  had  anvthingf  to  do  with  it ! — but  I 


58  MY  FRIEND   BILL. 

did  not  reply.  I  just  sat  and  thought,  and  thought.  As 
I  looked  at  Mr.  Knickerbocker  I  moralized  on  things.  If 
you  don't  care  for  the  world  and  want  to  withdraw  from 
it,  do  so — it  will  not^miss  you,  it  will  not  seek  out  your 
hiding-place.  If  you  are  not  pleased  with  the  changing 
customs,  don't  protest — they  will  change  anyhow.  Don't 
frown ;  it  wrinkles  the  face.  Better  wrinkle  it  with  a 
smile,  if  you  are  determined  to  wear  wrinkles. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  social  controversy  with  Mr. 
Knickerbocker,  and  when  I  had  thought  the  subject  at  an 
end,  the  man  from  "Lunnon''  adjusted  his  one-eyed  spec 
tacles  and  began  on  his  "Impressions  of  America/'  Said 
he :  "You  have  very  queer  social  customs  in  this  country. 
There  is  no  standard.  The  lowest  strata  of  society  in  this 
generation  may  be  the  leaders  of  the  next.  The  mediocre 
of  the  city,  if  they  fail  of  recognition,  only  need  to  go 
into  some  of  your  suburban  towns,  and  by  pure  assurance 
and  a  little  money,  rule  the  social  'sets'  of  the  place. 
They  may  be  the  veriest  snobs,  but  your  patient  people 
submit  most  graciously,  and  seem  happy  to  receive  from 
them  a  bow  of  recognition. 

"It  has  often  been  a  source  of  amusement  to  me  to 
watch  these  'snobs'  trying  to  do  'the  proper  thing.' 

"In  dear  old  England  it  is  not  so.  Everybody  there 
knows  his  place  and  is  happy.  There  is  not  that  heart 
burning  which  you  see  here,  where  people  are  continually 
trying  to  reach  a  social  position,  for  which  they  will 
sacrifice  everything  else  to  attain,  and  when  they  have 
attained  it  they  are  not  content,  for  many  of  them  know 
that  they  are  still  only  mediocre. 

"See  how  proud  the  highest  of  your  people  become 
when  our  real  society  in  England  gives  them  a  little  recog 
nition  ;  and  when  our  Queen  consents  to  have  them  pre 
sented  to  her  it  is  an  event  worthy  a  cablegram. 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  59 

"The  recipient  of  that  recognition  becomes  thereafter 
a  person  a  little  bit  higher  than  the  rest  of  her  country 
women. 

''No,  my  friends,  America  has  no  social  standard. 
Even  your  'smart  set/  from  whom  'the  correct'  is  sup 
posed  to  emanate,  look  to  a  seller  of  wine,  imported  from 
another  city,  to  know  what  is  correct.  And  if,  perchance, 
one  of  our  actresses — whose  name  at  home  may  be  most 
unsavory — should  ask  aid  for  some  cause  that  pleased  her 
fancy,  these  people,  whose  one  aim  in  life  is  social,  will 
come  and  go  at  her  bidding,  as  though  she  were  a  social 
queen." 

I  was  about  to  answer  him,  but  the  Statesman  gave 
me  a  look  that  said,  "Don't  say  a  word !"  He  afterward 
told  me  that  the  Englishman  was  right;  that  he  had  de 
scribed  conditions  very  true  to  life. 

Then  I  set  to  wondering  how  long  it  would  be  till  we 
would  have  a  standard  purely  American,  and  not  bow  to 
the  social  customs  of  any  land  but  our  own — wondering, 
too,  how  far  distant  the  day  when  those  customs  would 
be  ruled  by  the  heart  rather  than  by  the  vanity  of  our 
people. 

The  "impressions"  of  this  Englishman  were,  to  say  the 
least,  subject  to  changes  by  a  longer  residence  in  America. 
He  asked  me  one  day  what  State  I  had  come  from.  I  told 
him  Pennsylvania. 

"Oh !  I  see ;  away  out  on  the  frontier !"  The  States 
man  must  have  been  rather  personal  when  he  remarked 
to  me,  sort  of  as  an  aside,  "He  judges  from  your  clothes 
more  than  from  his  knowledge  of  your  geography,  I 
guess." 

"Yes,"  said  I  to  the  Englishman,  paying  no  attention 
to  the  Statesman. 


60  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

"Is  the  Indian  very  bad  out  there?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  he  certainly  is !  The  worst,  in  fact,  that  I  have 
ever  seen !"  said  I,  having  in  mind  the  one  "Toppy" 
Troupe  had  cut  out  of  a  block  of  wood  for  his  cigar  store. 

This  Briton  believed  everything  he  heard. 

One  day  the  subject  of  pensions  to  our  soldiers  came 
up,  when  he  remarked  : 

"I  think  your  Government  very  liberal  with  its  pen 
sions.  A  man  told  me  the  other  day  about  a  soldier 
in  one  of  your  wars  who  got  scared  into  a  fit  when  he 
was  about  to  go  into  battle,  and  that  he  had  been  drawing 
a  pension  on  that  one  fit  ever  since !" 

Oh,  but  this  man  from  "Lunnon"  was  credulous ! 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"It  isn't  always  the  yungist  that  lives  the  langist" 

"It  is  better  to  be  capable  of  doing  one  little  thing  well 

than  to  be  able  to  tell  well  of  the  great  things  other 

people  can  do." 
"Ann  Street,  the  dumping  ground  for  genius." 

I  found  among  the  "hired"  people  here  quite  as  odd 
characters  as  in  the  country.  One  day  at  the  table  I 
asked  old  Mrs.  Crowley,  one  of  the  waitresses,  as  they 
called  them — but  she  always  seemed  to  be  too  old  for  that 
word :  "Mrs.  Crowley,  what  has  become  of  that  pretty 
little  black-eyed  girl  who  used  to  help  you  at  the  wait- 
ing?" 

''Is  it  Anny  ye  manes?  Pore  leetle  Anny!  It's  ded 
she  is." 

I  was  surprised  and  sorry,  for  Anna  was  a  very  bright 
young  girl. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Crowley,  Anna  was  so  young!" 

"Thru  far  ye,  Mister  Rubing,  thru  far  ye.  She  was 
yung,  but  it  isn't  ollways  the  yungist  that  lives  the  lang 
ist,"  and  she  wiped  her  poor  old  eyes  with  the  corner  of 
her  apron. 

This  same  old  lady  asked  me  one  day :  "Mister  Rubing, 
phat  is  the  grate  poile  ov  papers  in  yer  rume?" 

"Why,  Mrs.  Crowley,  I  am  waiting  a  book  all  about 
my  experience  in  New  York." 

"Ah,  me !  an'  it's  a  buke  ye  are  wroitin' !     Ah,  Mister 

6r 


62  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

Rubing!  an'  it  is  shurely  a  moity  foine  buke — a  virry 
butiful  buke,  indade!" 

"What!     Have  you  been  reading  my  manuscript?'' 

"Radin'  iz  it  ye  say?  Oi  rade?  Ah,  Mister  Rubing! 
nary  a  single  bit  can  Oi  rade.  It's  the  wroitin' — the 
wroitin',  Oi  mane.  It  is  so  butiful !" 

I  could  not  help  wishing  that  certain  of  my  friends 
had  heard  that  compliment. 

The  man  whose  sole  excellence  lies  in  being  able  to 
tell  well  about  what  others  can  do  well  was  also  a  boarder 
at  our  house.  He  used  to  tell  us  about  how  this  or  that 
actor  could  act;  how  well  this  singer  could  sing;  what  a 
wonderful  orator  was  Mr.  X.,  or  what  this  or  that  great 
personage  could  do,  better  than  anybody  else.  He  used 
to  make  the  rest  of  us  feel  most  insignificant  by  the  self- 
important  manner  in  which  he  would  speak  of  the  accom 
plishments  of  others.  I  thought  at  the  time  that  he  was 
a  unique  character,  but  have  long  since  learned  that  he 
is  a  most  numerous  personage.  Every  large  boarding- 
house  has  him  in  full  size,  and,  no  doubt,  will  have  him 
to  the  end  of  time,  as  one  of  the  ills  of  this  world — and 
possibly,  too,  in  the  next,  where  he  will  know  some  "harp 
er''  who  can  "out-harp  any  harper  you  ever  knew." 

I  have  long  since  learned  this :  It  is  far  better  to  be 
capable  of  doing  even  one  little  thing  well  than  to  be 
able  to  tell  well  the  great  things  that  other  people  can  do. 

What  I  noticed  as  remarkable  at  my  boarding  place 
was  the  diversity  of  the  callings  of  the  boarders.  This 
limited  the  subjects  for  conversation  only  to  the  number 
at  the  table. 

There  was  the  inventor  and  the  author.  The  inventor 
had  just  been  granted  a  patent  on  a  small  article,  which 
was  sure  to  bring  him  in  a  vast  fortune.  He  often  told 
what  he  would  do  for  us  when  his  "article"  got  to  selling. 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  63 

"Why,"  said  he  in  his  inventor's  enthusiasm,  "there  is  an 
untold  fortune  in  it.  Better  than  a  gold  mine.  There 
are,  in  the  first  place,  the  States  of  the  Union.  Then 
comes  the  counties  with  their  townships  and  school  dis 
tricts.  Why,  men,  just  think  of  the  vast  number  of  all 
these  sub-divisions !  I  will  sell  rights — State,  county  and 
townships.  I  will  establish  a  great  manufacturing  plant 
in  the  East  and  live  like  a  king.  You  must  all  feel  at 
home  in  the  palace  I  will  build." 

The  author  was  little  less  enthusiastic.  His  book 
would  cost  but  twenty-five  cents,  and  sell  readily  at  a 
dollar,  as  every  one  in  the  whole  land  would  be  unhappy 
without  a  copy.  The  sale  in  consequence  would  be  limit 
ed  alone  by  the  capacity  of  his  great  presses.  Both  of 
these  men  left  shortly  after.  I  used  often  to  wonder  why 
I  never  saw  the  book  or  heard  of  the  invention;  but  one 
day,  long  after,  I  was  passing  through  Ann  street — the 
dumping  ground  for  genius — and  on  two  of  the  little 
push-carts  I  saw  the  book  on  the  one  and  the  invention 
on  the  other,  offered — but  not  selling — at  five  cents 
apiece. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"'Swat  him  one,  Ike — swat  him  one!'  And  that  pesky 
boy  up  and  threw  the  ivhole  pot  of  paste  over  me,  as 
I  left  the  editor's  office  four  steps  at  a  time." 

I  was  much  entertained  by  the  newspaper  reporter  who 
sat  at  my  left  at  table.  He  always  had  so  many  things 
to  tell  me  that  he  had  seen  from  day  to  day.  I  asked  him 
how  he  got  things  to  report,  and  if  it  was  hard  work. 
"No,"  said  he;  "you  see  an  occurrence  and  simply  write 
it  up.  The  more  important  it  is  the  more  money  you  get 
for  the  story."  Everything  was  a  "story"  with  him.  I 
thought — at  the  time — that  this  was  possibly  why  I 
had  so  often  heard  the  newspapers  spoken  of  as  so  full 
of  untruths,  but  I  have  since  learned  that  I  was  wrong, 
and  that  this  was  not  the  reason.  After  that  I,  too,  used 
to  watch  for  "stories,"  that  I  might  tell  him  and  help  him 
in  his  business. 

One  day  I  went  over  on  the  top  of  the  Palisades,  which 
the  Statesman  had  told  me  \vas  a  fine  trip  to  take,  as 
the  view  was  so  beautiful  up  and  down  the  Hudson  river, 
with  New  York  lying  just  across,  to  the  east.  While  go 
ing  through  the  wood,  over  an  unfrequented  foot-path, 
I  found  a  man  who  had  hung  himself.  "Here,"  said  I 
to  myself,  "is  a  'story'  that  will  startle  them."  I  remem 
bered  what  a  time  there  was  when  old  Swisher  hung  him 
self  at  a  place  back  in  the  mountains,  about  ten  miles  from 
Highmont.  Farmers  stopped  plowing,  the  blacksmith  left 

64 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  65 

a  horse  only  half  shod,  the  postoffice  closed  up  its  doors, 
and  even  the  "sewing  circle,"  which  met  that  afternoon  at 
"gramma"  Kurd's,  stopped  its  gossip  about  the  new  doc 
tor,  while  everybody  who  could  get  a  vehicle  or  a  horse  got 
quickly  ready  to  go  and  see  the  sight  of  a  man  hanging. 
Those  who  had  no  other  way  walked.  When  we  got  to 
the  wood  where  the  old  man  was  hanging,  waiting  for 
the  coroner,  you  would  have  thought  it  was  a  Methodist 
camp-meeting,  or  a  county  fair  on  "racing  day."  People 
kept  coming  until,  I  am  sure,  there  was  nobody  left  at 
home  to  look  after  the  children — but  for  that  matter,  there 
must  have  been  few  left  to  look  after.  "The  Swisher 
suicide"  was  an  event  from  which  dated  many  an  incident. 
And  here  I  had  found  a  man  who  had  left  the  world  by 
the  same  "line."  "This  is  too  important,"  thought  I,  "to 
give  to  the  Reporter.  I  will  write  it  up,  and  it  will  bring 
some  more  'easy  money'  to*  loan  (?)  to  the  poor  preacher. 
Yes,  I  will  write  it  up — I  won't  miss  a  single  point."  I 
wrote  it  as  graphically  as  possible,  making  it  as  long  a 
"story"  as  I  could.  The  Reporter  had  told  me  that  they 
paid  by  the  length  as  well  as  for  the  importance  of  the 
"story." 

I  picked  out  the  paper  that  always  boasted  that  "what 
you  saw  in  it  was  so."  I  did  this  that  I  might  know  that 
my  first  "story"  would  be  believed. 

"Is  the  editor  in  ?"  I  asked.  The  office-boy  who  was 
pasting  something  in  a  big  book  pointed  with  his  brush 
to  a  man  sitting  at  a  desk,  to  whom  I  approached  with : 
"Do  you  buy  stories  here?" 

"Yes,"  said  he,  eager-like,  "if  they  are  good  ones." 

"Well,  I  have  a  great  one  for  you,"  I  replied,  almost 
feeling  the  money  in  my  pocket  already. 

He  got  up  hurriedly  and  asked :  "What  is  it  ?  what 
is  it?"  I  gave  it  to  him,  and  stood  waiting.  He  looked 


66  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

it  over,  sat  down,  then  looked  at  me  with  a  sort  of  a 
"where'd  -  you  -  drop  -  from  -  anyhow"  sneer,  and  said : 
"Young  man,  you're  new;  this  thing  is  worth  nothing 
to  us." 

"What !  a  man  hangs  himself,  and  you  are  not  glad 
to  hear  it !" 

"No;  we  can't  use  this  stuff."  And  he  went  back  to 
his  writing,  paying  no  attention  to  me — no  more  than  if 
I  had  been  a  mere  spring  poet.  Well,  I  was  possibly  a 
little  hasty,  but  I  could  not  help  telling  him  in  rather  a 
high  key:  "Hereafter,  sir,  every  time  I  find  a  man  who 
has  hung  himself  I  will  just  let  him  hang;  and,  sir,"  as  I 
sidled  off  toward  the  door  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  "I 
hope  you  will  be  the  first  one  I  find." 

He  called,  quick  like,  to  the  boy:  "Swat  him  one,  Ike 
— swat  him  one !"  And,  do  you  believe  it,  that  pesky 
office-boy  threw  a  whole  bucket  of  soft  paste  over  me 
as  I  went  down  stairs  four  steps  at  a  time.  At  the  bot 
tom  of  the  steps  I  fell  into  the  arms  of  the  Reporter,  who 
wanted  to  know :  "Whatever  in  the  world  is  the  matter, 
Ruben?" 

"I  have  been  to  see  the  Editor  with  a  'story/  "  said  I. 

Would  you  believe  it,  while  I  was  in  a  barber-shop  pay 
ing  two  dollars  to  get  that  tarnal  paste  removed,  that  en 
terprising  Reporter  was  "writing  up  a  story"  about  how 
"Ruben  saw  the  Editor."  He  told  me  at  supper  that  he 
had  sold  his  "story"  for  six  dollars.  I  have  done  no  news 
paper  work  since. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"Being  of  an  unselfish  nature,  I  wanted  to  know  if  there 
were  many  people  killed  in  the  wreck." 

Ever  since  the  evening  I  told  of  my  experience  with  the 
wrestler  at  the  museum,  one  of  the  boarders  who  had  not 
spoken  to  me  before  had  been  very  pleasant  toward  me. 
He  was  a  quiet  young  man — so  much  so  that  he  reminded 
me  of  the  Preacher — and  I  wondered  if  he,  too,  were  not 
a  "medal  man."  He  must  have  been,  for  once  when  his 
coat  front  was  thrown  back,  I  could  see  two  or  three 
gold  medals.  I  liked  him,  for  he  was  so  agreeable  in 
manner,  and  used  very  pretty  language.  He  was  not  thin 
like  the  other  preacher,  and  then  he  never  missed  a  meal. 
He  even  looked  prosperous,  so  that  I  didn't  feel  sorry  for 
him  as  I  did  for  the  other. 

One  evening  after  supper,  while  the  Statesman  was  tell 
ing  about  some  more  mistakes  the  President  had  made — 
these  errors  on  the  part  of  the  President  were  no  end  of 
worry  to  the  Statesman — this  young  man  came  up  to  us, 
and  asked  if  we  would  take  a  walk  with  him.  We  ac 
cepted  his  invitation  and  started  out  together. 

When  we  came  to  a  large  building  all  lighted  up,  the 
young  man  said  it  was  a  club-house,  and  that  he  was  a 
member  of  the  club,  with  the  right  to  take  us  in.  (I 
didn't  fully  appreciate  those  last  three  words  until  later.) 
We  went  in.  I  had  never  before  seen  anything  so  fine 
as  that  club-house.  It  was  a  revelation  of  beauty  to  my 

67 


68  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

inexperienced  eyes.  Everybody  seemed  to  know  our 
friend  and  treated  him  with  such  marked  deference  that 
1  could  but  wonder:  "Who  is  this  man  that  all  should 
treat  him  with  so  much  respect?"  He  showed  us  through 
the  library,  then  took  us  through  the  various  rooms,  where 
I  saw  more  queer  things  than  I  had  ever  seen  in  one  house 
before.  There  were  swords,  and  little  wire  baskets,  big 
clubs  with  stripes  all  around  them,  and  mittens  nearly  as 
big  as  baby  pillows,  and  many  strange  things  I  knew  no 
names  for.  I  asked  the  young  man  what  those  "baby 
pillows"  were  for,  as  I  could  see  no  possible  use  for  such 
great  clumsy  mittens.  He  said  they  were  used  011  the 
hands  while  ''boxing."  I  told  him  that  when  we  boxed  at 
Highmont  we  used  only  our  hands.  He  then  asked  if  I 
ever  boxed  at  my  town.  Well,  I  felt  so  much  like  laugh 
ing  that  I  could  hardly  keep  my  face  straight,  I  wanted 
to  laugh  so  much ;  but  I  kept  quiet  and  smothered  my 
mirthful  feelings  as  best  I  could  until  I  finally  told  him 
to  "Ask  the  boys  back  home!" 

"How  would  you  like  to  put  on  the  gloves  with  me?" 
he  asked.  Now,  while  I  felt  my  boxing  blood  beginning 
to  boil,  I  somehow1  liked  this  young  man  so  well  that  I 
sort  o'  hated  to  hurt  him,  and  I  told  him  as  much.  "No; 
when  I  get  excited  I  forget  myself  and  strike  very  hard. 
I  might  hurt  you  unintentionally,  and  this  I  would  after 
ward  regret — but  too  late.  No,  I  don't  think  we  had 
better  put  them  on."  He  did  look  so  frail  alongside  of 
my  big,  awkward  frame  that  I  just  couldn't  have  the  heart 
to  risk  hitting  him  one  of  my  sledge-hammer  blows. 

"Come,  now,  Ruben,  you  need  have  no  fear.  I  am 
used  to  hard  hits." 

"Well,  I  will  put  them  on  and  will  try  very  hard  not  to 
forget  myself;  but  remember  if  I  do  hurt  you,  it  will  be 
because  of  my  becoming  unduly  excited." 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  69 

It  \vas  so  different  with  the  professor  at  the  museum. 
Now,  when  I  threw  him  so  hard  that  he  nearly  broke 
in  two  I  had  no  feeling  whatever  for  him ;  but  this  \vas 
a  different  case.  Here  was  a  fine  young  fellow  whom  I 
was  living  with — saw  him  every  day — member  of  my  own 
family,  as  it  were ;  then  he  was  so  gentle  and  meek  that 
I  felt  almost  mean  to  thus  take  advantage  of  him,  but  he 
insists  and  he  must  take  the  result  of  his  rashness.  By 
this  time  there  were  a  good  many  in  the  room  watching 
us,  and  still  more  coming  from  all  parts  of  the  house. 
It  was  quite  a  good  show  to  see  a  frail  little  man  standing 
up  before  a  big  fellow  like  me — a  man  who  could  out-box 
any  one  in  all  our  country.  These  people  must  have  ex 
pected  a  good  show,  the  way  they  did  crowd  into  that 
room.  I  began  to  weaken  when  I  saw  the  way  they  kept 
coming.  I  didn't  mind  boxing  when  there  wras  no  one 
around  but  the  Statesman,  but  to  make  this  fine  youth 
appear  insignificant  before  his  friends  I  just  would  not 
do  it,  and  went  as  though  I  were  going  to  take  off  the 
gloves,  when  just  at  that  time  a  man  whom  I  had  not 
before  noticed  called  out,  "Ready!"  and  the  young  man 
was  up  before  me.  I  had  thought  that  the  professor  in 
the  museum  was  quick,  but  this  one  could  go  four  blocks 
before  the  other  one  had  started  up  the  pike.  Just  as  I 
had  feared,  I  forgot  myself  and  struck  a  terrible  blow 
right  at  the  young  man's  head.  Strange  to  say  it  didn't 
hurt  him  even  a  little  bit — for  he  wasn't  there.  Every 
time  I  struck  I  hit  him  just  where  the  first  blow  had 
landed. 

All  at  once  there  was  a  bolt  of  lightning  struck  that 
beautiful  building  and  seemed  to  fairly  shatter  things. 
I  didn't  come  to  for  more  than  a  half-hour;  and  when  I 
did,  being  of  an  unselfish  nature,  I  wanted  to  know  if 
there  were  many  people  killed  in  the  wreck.  I  was  great- 


70  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

ly  surprised  when  I  saw  that  the  room  had  not  been  shat 
tered.  I  learned  two  things  that  night — first,  that  the 
meek  young  man  was  the  boxing  professor  of  the  club, 
and  the  other  was  that  country  boys  had  better  confine 
themselves  to  wrestling. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"The  worship  of  gold  has  akvays  been  more  devout  with 
me  when  I  could  carry  the  idol  in  my  oivn  pocket." 

L/ike  Mr.  Knickerbocker,  the  young  Frenchman  at  my 
left  two  seats  at  the  table  had  been  so  quiet  that  his  pres 
ence  was  hardly  noticed. 

He  came  and  w?ent  without  a  word.  He  never  joined 
in  the  conversation,  and  yet  he  seemed  ever  intent  on 
listening  to  the  others  talking. 

He  broke  the  silence  one  evening  when  the  subject  of 
"inherited  fortunes"  was  being  discussed.  The  Reporter, 
that  day,  had  interviewed  a  man  who  \vas  the  prospective 
heir  to  a  vast  fortune  in  England. 

"He  is  sure  to  get  it,  too,"  said  the  Reporter.  "He  says 
there  is  no  doubt,  as  he  has  a  record  that  reaches  back 
over  a  hundred  years  to  the  landing  in  America  of  his 
great-grandfather." 

"Ze  gintleman  nevair  ze  fortune  veel  receive,"  was  the 
broken  comment  of  our  Frenchman.  All  eyes  were  at 
once  upon  him.  The  doubt  cast  upon  the  Reporter's 
confident  assertion  was  a  challenge  which  that  gentleman 
took  up  with :  "Why  do  you  think  he  will  not  come  into 
the  inheritance?" 

"I  have  much  travail  in  ze  beautiful  Americk;  I  find  in 
ze  litteel  village  and  in  ze  grate  citie  peepil  who  high 
fortunes  veel  inhereet  from  ze  Inglish,  but  I  nevair  zee 
ze  peepil  who  hav  a  franc  yet  inhereet.  Evair  one  hav  ze 

71 


72  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

no  doubt,  same  like  ze  gintleman  you  meet  zis  day.     All 
hav  ze  grate  confidanz,  but  none  gets  ze  fortune. 

"If  ze  millions,  ze  peepil  of  Americk  zay  veel  com  to 
zem  von  day,  vould  com,  zen  ze  greate  banque  of  ze  Ing 
lish  vould  pe  empt  and  all  ze  land  zold  and  ze  gold  zent  to 
Americk  in  many  sheeps. 

"Ze  inglish  like  ze  gold  verai  much  and  no  let  ze  gold 
com  to  Americk.  Ze  Inglish  make  ze  law  to  keep  ze  gold. 
No,  ze  gintleman  you  meet  veel  nevair  ze  fortune 
inhereet." 

The  Reporter  must  have  known  that  there  was  much 
truth  in  what  the  Frenchman  said,  but  he  turned  the  argu 
ment  by  asking: 

"Why  is  it  that  vou  French  are  so  jealous  of  the  Eng 
lish  ?  Why  do  you  always  speak  ill  of  them  ?  Why  do 
you  think  that  nothing  good  can  be  done  by  that  nation?" 

"If  ze  truth  be  ill — and  I  speek  ze  truth — I  speek  it 
with  no  jealous.  If  many  peepil  expect  ze  vast  fortune, 
and  no  peepil  get  ze  von  franc,  zen  zair  must  be  ze  grate 
wrong.  Ze  Inglish  make  ze  law  to  keep  ze  gold.  My 
own  La  Belle  France  make  ze  law  zat  ze  gold  shall  be 
distribut.  Ze  great  fortune  always  ees  expect  from  ze 
Inglish  and  nevair  from  ze  French.  My  countrie  make 
ze  honeest  law.  Yen  ze  reech  tie  een  France  ze  heirs  vas 
all  hunt  out  from  evair  place  een  ze  vorld,  and  ze  gold 
honeest  distribut. 

"I  hav  ze  von  reech  aunt,  vera  old.  Eef  she  tie  zis 
veek  ze  conzul  all  ovair  ze  vorld  vincl  me  and  dell  me,  and 
I  ged  my  part  zoon,  and  no  hav  to  expect  alvays  and 
nevair  ged." 

Strange  to  relate,  that  very  week  the  Reporter  came 
home  one  evening  greatly  excited.  He  had  seen  in  a 
paper  an  advertisement  which  quite  accurately  described 
our  Frenchman.  It  had  been  inserted  bv  the  French 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  73 

consul,  asking  information  that  would  lead  to  the  finding 
of  one  M.  La  Fetra. 

When  the  paper  was  shown  to  the  Frenchman  he  read 
the  advertisement  and  handed  it  back  to  the  Reporter 
without  comment,  simply  thanking  him. 

The  next  evening  we  learned  that  the  "reech  aunt"  had 
died  and  that  M.  La  Fetra  was  one  of  the  heirs. 

I  never  could  have  believed  that  prospective  fortune 
could  so  change  a  man  in  the  eyes  of  people  who  had  be 
fore  scarcely  noticed  him.  The  good  fortune  changed 
M.  La  Fetra  less  than  any  one  else  at  the  house. 

Uncertainty  as  to  the  amount  of  an  inheritance  never 
places  the  prospective  fortune  anywhere  this  side  of 
"vast." 

The  Reporter  was  the  first  to  reap  the  benefit  of  the 
"find."  He  wrote  "stories"  for  all  the  papers  and  sold 
them  at  his  own  price.  In  less  than  a  week  plain  M. 
La  Fetra  was  ''Count  La  Fetra,"  and  was  "traveling'  in 
America  for  his  health."  Only  the  rich  "travel  for  their 
health."  The  rest  of  the  world  are  simply  "travelers," 
from  the  ordinary  citizen  down  to  the  tramp. 

What  a  change  all  this  ado  must  have  been  to  M.  La 
Fetra,  "the  prospective  heir  to  a  vast  French  fortune." 
Tailors  vied  with  each  other  in  arraying  him  in  their 
finest  importations,  and  were  only  too  delighted  to  have 
him  open  an  account  with  them.  Florists  kept  him  sup 
plied  with  their  rarest  flowers,  and  seemed  almost 
offended  when  he  spoke  of  pay.  Ere  long  the  carriages 
of  society  began  stopping  at  our  door,  and  Count 
La  Fetra  was  the  attraction  of  many  a  social  event. 

The  Actor  set  about  getting  up  what  he  called  a  theatre 
party  for  the  "Count,"  and  went  so  far  as  to*  engage  a  box 
and  order  a  fine  supper  at  "Del's."  The  only  thing  that 
prevented  its  success  was  that  I  refused  to  loan  him  the 


74  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

money  "till  next  week."  The  worship  of  gold  was  always 
more  devout  with  me  when  I  could  carry  the  idol  in  my 
own  pocket. 

Why  prolong  this  story?  It  would  be  but  a  recital 
of  the  honors  and  courtesies  thrust  upon  a  stranger  by 
people  who  had  no  interest  whatever  in  the  "man,"  but  in 
what  they  thought  the  "man  was  to  get." 

The  end  came.  M.  La  Fetra — "Count"  no  longer — 
got  his  "fortune."  The  dear  old  aunt  had  willed  most  of 
her  wealth  to  the  Church,  and  his  portion  amounted  to 
just  thirty-seven  dollars  and  fifty  cents. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"The  Bargain  Day  Fighting  Battalion  has  much  to  do 
with  the  condition  of  things." 

And  there  was  the  one  they  called  the  Anarchist. 
When  the  Statesman  told  me  that  this  man  was  an  anar 
chist  I  could  scarcely  comprehend  it.  My  notion  of  an 
anarchist  had  been  so  entirely  different  from  what  I  found 
this  man  to  be.  Tom  was  quiet,  and  even  courteous.  His 
language  was  cultured  and  his  voice  soft  and  gentle,  and 
yet  there  was  that  earnestness  about  his  manner  that 
always  commanded  instant  attention.  He  had  been  an 
editor  in  his  own  land,  which  he  always  spoke  of  as  "The 
Land  of  the  Midnight  Sun."  While  he  was  yet  a  young 
man  he  had  been  banished  from  his  country  for  some  of 
his  sentiments.  Since  coming  to  America  he  had  spent 
much  of  his  time  in  working  for  the  betterment  of  the 
poorer  classes.  He  had  traveled  extensively,  had  seen 
nearly  all  of  our  cities,  and  made  a  study  of  our  customs, 
our  laws  and  our  people.  "You  think  of  me,"  said  he  one 
evening  at  table,  "as  an  anarchist  or  as  a  socialist,  and 
why  am  I  so  called  ?  I  look  about  me  on  the  human  race  ; 
I  see  that  God  has  given  to  all  equal  natural  rights,  has 
given  to  all  the  desire  to  live.  When  I  see  the  lesser  por 
tion  bearing  down  upon  the  greater,  by  reason  of  the  laws 
which  they,  with  superior  minds,  have  been  able  to  make ; 
when  I  see  each  year  these  laws  being  made  more  burden 
some  than  before  ;  when  I  see  the  poor  being  made  poorer, 

75 


y6  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

and  the  rich  more  domineering ;  when  I  see  men  with 
aspirations  to  lead  a  better  life  ground  down  until  they 
lose  all  hope  and  become  thoroughly  bad ;  when  I  see  the 
faces  of  little  children  pinched  and  wan  by  reason  of  pre 
natal  care  of  a  starving  mother ;  when  I  see  these  little 
children  grow  up  amid  surroundings  that  tend  only  to 
make  them  worse  even  than  their  parents;  when,  I  say,  I 
see  all  this  awful  condition,  with  a  tendency  to  going  con 
tinually  lower,  then  I  cry  out  in  utter  despair,  and  in  my 
effort  to  change  the  conditions  I  am  called  an  anarchist." 
Just  here  the  Statesman  broke  in  with :  ''How  would 
you  change  the  existing  conditions?" 

Said  the  Anarchist,  now  becoming  thoroughly  wrought 
up  with  the  subject :  '''I  would  have  equitable  laws — not 
one  law  for  the  rich  and  another  for  the  poor.  I  would 
not  have  the  money  power  continually  changing  the  laws, 
governing  finance,  to  their  own  advantage  and  to  the 
detriment  of  labor,  as  you  know  they  are  doing,  year  after 
year.  Money  is  being  made  too  valuable  for  the  cap 
italist,  and  labor  and  labor's  product  too  cheap." 

"We  want  things  cheap,"  spoke  up  one  of  the  lady 
boarders,  one  who,  the  Statesman  said,  was  a  regular 
"Bargain  Day  Hunter." 

Whether  the  Anarchist  meant  it  for  her  or  as  a  general 
proposition,  I  do  not  know,  but  he  said :  "The  bargain 
day  fighting  battalion  has  much  to  do  with  the  condition 
of  things.  They  buy  only  at  unprofitable  prices  to  the 
producer;  the  merchant  must  buy  at  a  low  price,  and,  in 
turn,  the  manufacturer  must  cut  down  his  labor  (it  always 
ends  at  labor)  that  he  may  produce  the  article  for  this 
cheap  'counter.'  This  is  becoming  to  be  a  bargain- 
hunting  nation,  which  is  not  wise.  Fair  prices  build  up, 
while  prices  below  living  value  degrade.  'I  bought  a 
'bargain'  to-day,'  translated  into  human  language  means : 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


77 


'I  bought  a  few  drops  of  the  life's  blood  of  a  starving 
fellow-being".' 

"If  you  could  see  what  I  am  at  times  compelled  to  look 
upon  you  would  not  be  surprised  at  these  sentiments." 

"Oh,  there  are  too  many  Dagos  coming  to'  this  coun 
try,''  said  the  Statesman,  who  is  thoroughly  American. 
"We  can't  help  it  if  they  have  to  work  for  low  wages  and 
live  on  a  crust  in  a  hovel.  Why,  for  that  matter,  they 
were  so  used  to  low  wages  and  hovel  living  in  their  own 
land  that  they  would  not  know  what  to  do  if  we  changed 
their  condition." 

"My  friends,"  replied  the  Anarchist,  earnestly,  "I  had 
hoped  not  to  speak  of  what  I  have  seen  this  day,  but  when 
'America'  is  mentioned  I  cannot  keep  back  the  story." 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

"The  flying  wheels  of  the  great  factory  zvere  stilled,  and 
the  grass  grew  in  the  streets  where  once  trod  the  con 
tented  workers. 

"You  know  that  my  work  is  among  the  poor  of  the 
East  Side.  They  all  seem  to  know  me  over  there.  The 
little  children  are  never  too  much  taken  up  with  their  play 
not  to  notice  when  I  come  among  them.  About  a  year  ago 
I  noticed  a  bright  little  girl  for  the  first  time.  The  other 
children  told  me  that  she,  with  her  mother,  had  just  moved 
into  the  neighborhood.  She  was  soon  one  of  my  friends, 
and  was  always  glad  to  see  Tom,  as  they  all  call  me. 
They  had  rooms,  plain  but  neatly  furnished,  and  kept 
them  so  clean  that  they  seemed  out  of  place  amid  the  sur 
roundings.  I  learned,  from  time  to  time,  bits  of  the 
mother's  story,,  until  I  must  have  had  it  all.  The  record 
of  her  family  began  at  the  very  beginning  of  your  country 
as  a  nation.  Her  great  great  grandfather  was  a  captain 
in  the  War  of  Independence,  and  her  grandfather  was 
with  Perry  on  Lake  Erie  in  the  War  of  1812.  Following 
the  record  of  the  family,  her  father  went  with  Scott  to 
Mexico,  and,  when  the  Civil  War  broke  out,  he  was 
chosen  and  went  as  colonel  of  a  Massachusetts  regiment. 
For  each  point  of  this  record  she  had  conclusive,  proof  to 
show.  She  married  a  young  man  in  her  home  village, 
which  was  supported  entirely  by  a  great  manufacturing 
company.  This  company  shortly  after  closed  its  doors, 
having  been  absorbed  by  a  trust  specially  protected  by 

78 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  -g 

your  laws.  This  trust  had  millions  of  capital  and  could 
dictate  what  it  wanted  your  law-makers  to  pass  for  its 
particular  benefit.  If  perchance  these  laws  were  not  en 
tirely  favorable  to  its  interest,  an  opinion  could  be  pur 
chased,  as  one  would  purchase  anything  else  in  open 
market,  for  money  will  buy  all  things  in  your  land,  from 
the  raw  material  up  to  an  opinion  that  will  sap  the  very 
life's  blood  of  your  working  people.  The  flying  wheels 
of  this  great  factory  were  stilled,  and  the  grass  grew  in 
the  streets  where  once  trod  the  contented  workers.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  in  this  pretty  little  village,  with  its 
schools  and  churches.  This  once  prosperous  community 
must  seek  its  bread  elsewhere — must  seek  its  life  in  some 
other  already  overcrowded  town  or  city,  and  by  compe 
tition  make  the  loaf  ever  smaller.  And  why?  In  order 
that,  by  concentration,  capital  might  produce  a  fraction 
of  a  per  cent,  more  for  the  lesser  portion  of  your  people. 
Not  that  this  lesser  portion  needs  the  fraction,  but  your 
laws  make  it  possible  for  the  fraction  to  be  taken,  no 
matter  if  the  bread  of  the  greater  part  is  taken  to  make  up 
this  increase  of  the  small  per  cent. 

"No  work  for  the  young  husband  in  the  home  of  his 
childhood,  where  every  tree  and  plant  had  for  him  a  sacred 
memory,  he  must  find  elsewhere  a  support  for  himself 
and  his  young  wife.  They  removed  to  New  York.  For 
a  time  the  husband  found  work  and  the  wife  took  in 
sewing  that  she  might  eke  out  the  necessities  of  their  new 
home.  Edith  came,  but  she  did  not  bring  that  joy  with 
her  that  is  seen  in  the  home  of  the  rich,  for  her  arrival 
meant  another  life  to  support.  The  condition  of  the  very 
poor  seldom  grows  better.  The  husband,  who,  at  the  old 
home,  had  been  a  temperance  worker,  took  to  drink,  as  he 
said,  to  drown  his  troubles,  and  died,  a  low  drunkard, 
when  Edith  was  scarce  two  years  old.  The  struggle  for 


go  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

bread  was  now  an  earnest  one  for  the  young  mother.  As 
long  as  she  could  get  steady  work  to  do  at  the  factory,  and 
with  what  sewing  she  could  do  at  night,  she  made  out  to 
live  fairly  well,  but  of  late  I  had  seen  Edith  very  seldom. 
Each  time  her  sweet  little  face,  so  bright  and  cheery  when 
I  had  first  seen  it,  seemed  more  wan  and  pinched.  Did 
you  ever  watch  a  rose,  see  it  bud  and  bloom  and  fade? 
Edith  of  late  had  faded  fast.  I  had  missed  her  from 
among  her  playmates  for  several  of  my  late  visits.  To 
day  I  asked :  'Where  is  Edith  ?' 

"  'Oh,  don't  you  know,  Tom,  that  Edith  is  very  sick?' 
asked  one  of  the  little  girls.  'My  mamma  was  there  this 
morning,  and  she  says  that  Edith  cannot  live  at  all.  Did 
you  know  that  they  had  moved?  Yes,  Tom,  the  man  that 
owns  the  factory  made  them  get  out  yesterday.  He  was 
awful  mean.  He  said  he  couldn't  keep  paupers.  Tom, 
Edith  wasn't  a  pauper,  was  she?  Why,  all  of  her  grand 
papas  were,  soldiers,  and  made  this  country  free,  my 
mamma  says.  How-  could  she  be  a  pauper,  when  that 
factory  man,  who  only  came  when  the  country  was  free,  is 
so  rich?  My  mamma  says  when  that  man  came  he  only 
had  a  pack  on  his  back;  now  he  makes  everybody  work 
nearly  for  nothing  and  fines  them  if  they  are  a  minute  late, 
and  makes  lots  of  money.  Edith's  mamma  worked  for 
him  a  long  time,  and  when  he  turned  her  off  she  couldn't 
pay  her  rent  any  more,  and  then  he  turned  her  out,  and 
she  went  to  live  away  upstairs  in  the  next  house,,  in  a  little 
room  what  another  very  poor  woman  lets  her  live  in  for 
nothing.  Tom,  my  mamma  says  Edith  was  awful  sick 
this  morning;  she  cried  real  hard  and  said:  'I  wTant  Tom. 
He  is  the  only  man  who  is  kind  to  us,  mamma.  Every 
body  is  so  wicked  but  Tom.  Tell  him  to  come.  I  want 
to  see  him  before  I  go.'  You  must  go  to  see  her,  won't 
you,  dear  Tom?' 


MY    FRIEND    BILL.  81 

"I  needed  no  urging  after  that.  The  little  girl  led  me 
up  a  dark,  rickety  stairway  to  the  very  garret  of  an  old 
house,  and  there,  on  some  rags,  lay  the  grandchild  of  a 
long  line  of  soldiers,  dying,  starving,  in  a  country  her  an 
cestors  had  made  free,  enlarged,  saved  and  always  de 
fended.  If  the  rich  man — made  rich  by  legal  robbery — 
could  have  seen  that  sight,  I  know  that  his  riches  would 
not  have  had  for  him  their  glitter  or  their  wonted  value. 

"  'Oh,  Tom,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come.  I  was  afraid 
I  would  have  to  go  without  seeing  you;  She  could  say 
but  a  few  words  at  a  time.  She  was  but  the  shadow  of 
the  Edith  I  had  seen  a  year  ago.  She  was  sinking  fast 
when  I  reached  her.  I  shall  never  forget  the  end. 
'Mamma,  I  am  so  hungry.  Will  I  be  hungry  in  heaven? 
Will  God  give  all  the  bread  to  the  rich  factory  man  and 
let  us  starve?  Will  the  rich  sit  in  the  great  hotels  there, 
listening  to  the  sweet  music,  with  so  much  to  eat  that  they 
will  never  be  hungry,  while  we  look  in  at  the  window, 
without  a  crust?  Will  God  love  the  factory  man  there 
and  give  everything  to  him  and  nothing  to  us?'  She 
grows  delirious ;  her  gaze  seems  far  away,  and  upward, 
as  she  continues :  'Mamma,  listen.  Do  you  hear  the 
drums  beating?  See,  there's  a  long  line  of  soldiers, 
dressed  up  so  queer — more  and  more  of  them  coming. 
There,  mamma,  watch ;  they  are  fighting.  A  big  man 
leads  a  company.  See,  quick — he  drives  back  the  other 
soldiers,  who  have  red  coats  on.  There,  the  great  general 
is  thanking  him,  and  everybody  is  throwing  up  hats. 
Mamma,  look  at  the  big  ships  on  the  water.  Oh,  how  the 
cannons  roar !  See,  the  masts  are  flying  in  splinters. 
There — one  of  them  is  sinking.  A  great  man  is  on  it. 
Oh,  mamma,  his  ship  will  sink  with  him — no — there's  a 
boat — oh,  look  quick,  one  of  the  men  in  the  boat  looks 
like  the  picture  of  grandpa.  Now,  see,  he  is  going  with 


S2  MY   FRIEND    PILL. 

the  great  man  to  another  ship.  There,  see,  mamma,  some 
of  the  ships  are  running  away  and  the  great  man  is  fol 
lowing  them.  They  stop.  There  is  no  fighting  now. 
They  are  all  going  away  together,  and  the  great  man  is  in 
the  front  ship.  Our  flag  is  the  only  one  flying;  all  the 
others  are  pulled  down.  Mamma,  why  don't  I  see  any  rich 
factory  man  fighting?  Oh,  look;  here's  fighting  on  the 
land  again.  See  the  awful  hill  those  soldiers  are  climbing 
up — and  there,  mamma,  there's  grandpa  on  top  of  the  hill, 
waving  a  flag,  and  a  lot  of  queer  little  soldiers  running 
away.  Won't  the  fighting  ever  stop,  mamma?  Grandpa 
is  fighting  again.  He  is  older  now,  and  has  pretty 
clothes  on,  and  with,  oh,  so  many  soldiers  behind  him. 
Ah,  I  am  so  glad  it  is  all  over  now — no  more  shooting. 
Listen  !  There  is  more  music,  but  there  is  no  drum.'  We 
thought  that  she  was  gone,  but  in  a  few  moments  her 
eyes  opened  wide  and  her  face  shone  with  a  radiance  I  had 
never  before  seen,  and,  with  her  little  hands  extended,  she 
feebly  cried :  'Yes,  grandpa,  here  is  your  little  Edith.  She 
is  so  tired — so  tired.' 

"And  yet,  my  friends,  I  am  called  an  Anarchist."     We 
silently  left  the  table,  no  one  caring  to  speak. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

j 
"Thirty  days!     Next!" 

I  think  it  was  the  second  day  after  I  had  found  the 
boarding  place  when  Tom,  the  "Anarchist,"  for  whom  I 
had  taken  a  great  liking,  came  to  me  just  after  breakfast 
and  said  he  would  help  me  to  hunt  for  my  friend  Bill. 

I  was  glad  to  have  him  go  out  with  me,  as,  when  I 
went  alone  on  the  street,  even  the  small  boys  said  things 
to  me  and  followed  me  about  just  as  though  I  had  been 
the  elephant  in  a  circus  procession. 

I.  never  could  have  believed  that  there  were  so  many 
different  kinds  of  people  in  the  world  as  we  saw  that 
morning. 

We  went  clown  to  where  I  had  found  so  many  of  the 
newspaper  offices  the  day  I  put  in  the  advertisements,  and 
just  stood  there  and  watched  the  people  go  by,  for  all 
the  world  like  bees  in  white  clover  season. 

Nobody  seemed  to  be  going  anywhere,  yet  they  all  kept 
moving,  except  some  very  tired-looking  men,  who  sat 
on  the  benches  in  the  little  park. 

I  asked  Tom  what  so  many  fat  soldiers  \vere  doing  in 
town  that  day,  but  he  said :  "Why,  they  are  not  soldiers. 
They  are  policemen." 

I  watched  them  with  great  interest.  They  didn't  seem 
to  have  a  thing  in  the  world  to  do  but  to  whirl  a  stick 
which  they  had  tied  to  their  wrists  with  strings,  and  to 
eat  apples  and  peanuts  from  little  wagons  that  stood  along 

83 


84  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

the  road.  When  they  would  get  tired  eating,  they  would 
scold  at  the  man  w?ho  pushed  the  wagon  for  them,  and 
make  him  move  to  the  other  side  of  the  road,  where  an 
other  policeman  stood  whirling  his  club  and  waiting  for 
him  to  come. 

Tom  pointed  out  to  me  a  dark,  fierce-looking  man,  who, 
he  said,  had  been  a  bandit  before  he  came  here  from  Italy. 

I  had  often  read  of  those  desperate  men  and  felt  like 
moving  off  from  where  we  stood,  as  he  came  over  from 
the  other  side  of  the  way,  not  that  I  was  at  all  afraid  of 
him,  but,  then,  I  just  felt  that  it  would  be  safer  to  be  on 
the  further  side  of  the  little  park,  but  Tom  said  that  there 
was  no  immediate  danger,  so  we  remained. 

He  had  scarcely  located  his  little  wagon  of  fruit  when 
a  policeman,  who  seemed  to  be  expecting  him,  reached 
down  and  took  the  largest  apple  off  the  pile.  I  trembled 
for  that  officer,  for  I  knew  there  would  be  trouble — and 
there  was — but  not  for  the  policeman.  Instantly  he  had 
taken  the  fruit  the  ex-bandit  said,  fierce-like,  as  he 
straightened  up  to  his  full  height:  "Xoa  taka  da  Ap !" 
That  policeman,  who  had  before  seemed  so  lacking  in 
animation,  was  instantly  a  whirlwind  of  action.  He 
rained  blows  on  the  bandit's  head  and  was  soon  leading 
him  off  to  the  station. 

The  wagon  was  overturned  and  the  small  boys  gathered 
up  the  apples  and  were  making  off  with  them,  while  other 
policemen  looked  on  smiling. 

Tom  and  I  followed  the  brave  officer  and  the  desperate 
bandit,  to  see  what  was  to  be  done  with  him — the  bandit. 

He  was  taken  before  the  judge,  who  wanted  to  know, 
"What  is  the  charge?"  Rough  like,  "Mea  maka  no 
charge,  judge.  He  noa  aska  de  price.  He  just  taka  da 
ap !"  said  the  now  thoroughly  excited  bandit. 

"Keep  still !     Officer,  what  is  the  charge?" 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  85 

"Disarderly  konduct  and  rezisting  ahn  afficer  ov  the 
lah,  yerronner !" 

The  judge  looked  at  the  battered  up  Italian  and  came 
to  the  same  conclusion  that  I  had  reached,  that  it  would 
take  him  at  least  a  month  to  get  over  his  bruises,  so  he 
said : 

"Thirty  days  !     Next !" 

I  was  greatly  surprised  \vhen  Tom  told  me  that  the 
judge  had  sent  the  bandit  to  prison  for  a  month. 

"What  for?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Tom;  "but  that  is  the  way  the 
law  is  administered  here,  if  the  prisoner  be  a  poor  devil." 

I  couldn't  help  thinking  that  the  Italian  had  better  re 
mained  at  home  and  kept  at  his  banditing  rather  than  to 
have  come  over  here  to  be  civilized,  where  other  foreign 
ers  do  the  civilizing  with  a  club. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"For  real,  downright,  frugal  politics,  commend  me  to  your 
country  districts." 

"Why  do  the  citizens  allow  their  affairs  to  be  run  in  this 
manner?"  I  asked  that  evening,  as  Tom  and  I  sat  in  his 
room,  after  dinner. 

"Ruben,"  said  he,  "the  citizens  have  very  little  to  do 
with  the  matter  of  running  a  city.  The  politicians  look 
after  it  for  them.  But  of  this  I  will  some  time  tell  you."' 

"I  am  sure,"  said  I,  not  wishing  to  drop  the  subject 
so  abruptly,  "that  our  country  districts  have  a  greater  care 
about  their  affairs  than  to  allow  the  politicians  to  manage 
them  as  they  are  run  in  the  cities." 

"Ah,  Ruben,  I  see  that  you  know  nothing  about  how 
your  own  native  land  is  governed.  Why,  my  dear  boy, 
for  real,  downright,  frugal  politics  commend  me  to  these 
same  country  districts. 

"Years  ago,  when  there  was  not  so  much  enlightenment 
as  now,  your  counties  had  but  little  use  for  law.  Your 
people  were  happy  and  lived  in  peaceful  quiet.  Your 
county  officers  were  usually  men  who  had  their  own  af 
fairs  to  look  after,  and  were  paid  a  nominal  salary  by  the 
public.  But  how  do  you  find  it  at  the  present?  New 
offices  have  been  created  and  the  salaries  of  the  office 
holders  have  grown  in  proportion  as  the  prices  of  the  land 
and  its  products  have  fallen.  Offices  which  were  once  but 
a  name  are  now  held  by  men  who,  though  they  could 

86 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  87 

make  but  a  poor  living  outside,  are  growing  rich  at  the 
expense  of  your  patient  farmers.  Some  country  lawyer, 
who  finds  existence  a  serious  problem,  will  get  himself 
sent  as  a  representative  or  Assemblyman  to  your  law- 
making  halls,  and  there,  by  a  series  of  'log-rolling,'  will 
have  the  salary  of  some  county  office  raised,  or,  for  that 
matter,  have  a  new  office  created,  and  at  the  end  of  his 
term  come  home  and  get  himself  elected  to  that  office. 

"He  will  thereafter  be  known  as  'Honorable,'  a  word 
more  often  dwhonored  by  the  holder  than  any  other  in  the 
English  language. 

"I  have  in  mind,  Ruben,  a  certain  county  whose  poli 
ticians,  led  by  one  of  the  above-mentioned  'Honorables/ 
have  reached  such  a  degree  of  perfection  that,  if  it  were 
not  so  serious,  it  would  be  a  most  humorous  subject  for 
a  comic  play,  or  even  opera  bouffe. 

"If  I  were  gifted  in  that  line  I  would  be  tempted  to 
write  such  a  play. 

"Just  think  of  the  various  acts  that  could  be  worked  in ! 
not  least  among  which  would  be  the  law  that  the  county 
'Honorable'  had  'log-rolled'  through,  where  all  'knights 
of  the  road'  were  to  be  arrested  by  the  constables,  taken 
before  the  justice  of  the  peace,  who1  must  in  turn  commit 
them  to  the  county  jail,  where  the  sheriff  boards  them  at 
a  big  profit  to  himself.  The  'knights'  from  all  surround 
ing  counties — (less  charitable  to  both  knights  and  their 
office-holders) — know  of  this,  and  when  cold  weather  sets 
in  come  in  to  be  'arrested,'  get  their  winter's  board  free, 
and  go  out  in  the  spring  in  fine  condition.  The  poor  little 
county  pays  all  expenses  and  the  office-holders  become  the 
'wealthy  men'  of  the  district. 

"Here  would  be  some  of  the  acts  and  scenes  that  could 
be  put  into  such  a  play: 

"The  caucus  of  leaders;  the  primary  for  nominations; 


88  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

the  patriotic  speeches  before  election,  in  which  the  gifted 
orators  could  draw  pictures  of  how  the  country  would  be 
ruined  if  Sam  Wiggins  were  not  elected  as  constable,  in 
stead  of  Phil  Jinkins ;  or  the  scene  in  the  cross-roads 
grocery  store,  where  the  adherents  of  different  factions 
fight  over  the  fine  points  of  their  several  candidates ;  and 
then,  after  the  election  returns  are  all  in  and  the  country 
is  'saved'  or  'ruined'  (to  be  determined  from  which  side 
you  view  it),  the  successful  candidates  meet  to  arrange 
their  plan  of  attack  on  the  public  treasury." 

"Hurray !  hurray  !  Go  on,  Tom.  I'll  be  the  'congrega 
tion.'  '  I  was  getting  enthusiastic  as  he  laid  out  the  plot. 

"Act  2,  Scene  I,  we  will  place  in  the  sheriff's  office. 
This  high  official  calls  the  roll  and  finds  all  present.  He 
being  the  dean  of  the  officers,  takes  the  chair  and  gives  in 
structions  to  the  newly  elected.  He  addresses  those 
having  supervision :  'Here,  men,  start  work  at  once  in 
every  section  of  the  county,  that  you  may  put  in  as  many 
days  this  year  as  possible.  Place  as  few  men  on  each 
bridge  or  road  as  can  well  be,  that  the  time  may  be  ex 
tended  for  the  completion  of  the  work,  lest  it  cost  the 
people  too  small  a  sum.  Go  at  once  and  lose  no  time,  as 
winter  will  soon  be  upon  you.'  Exit  those  having  super 
vision. 

"Sheriff  continues :  'Here,  Keeper  of  the  Keys ! 
Where  is  that  dolt?  Ah,  there  you  are.  How  many 
boarders  have  wre  in  the  Safe?' 

"Keeper:   'Ten,  me  lord  !' 

"Sheriff:  'Ten!  Only  ten,  and  winter  so  nearly  upon 
us !  Where  are  mv  Procurers  of  the  Road  KniHits ' 

*  o 

Send  them  in!' 

"Enter  six   Procurers  trembling. 

"Sheriff:    'You  villains,  why  this  emptiness?' 

"Spokesman  for  Procurers :    '  'Tis  the  heat,  me  lord ! 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  89 

The  Knights  refuse  to  come  into  the  county  until  the 
winter  hath  set  in  cold.  We  have  abundant  promise 
from  them  that  when  the  snow  doth  fly  that  they  will 
come  into  the  county.  So  many  promises  have  we,  me 
lord,  methinks  you  must  needs  enlarge  the  Safe.' 

"The  Sheriff,  in  fine  humor,  bids  them  depart,  each  to 
his  county,  to  work  up  the  winter  business.  Exit  Pro 
curers.  Sheriff  gives  instructions  to  the  assembled  Con 
stables,  Justices  of  the  Peace  and  other  officers,  and  the 
curtain  is  rung  down. 

:jc  :•;  ^  ^  ^;  :jc  *  * 

"The  Constables  have  given  up  their  trades  or  other 
occupations  for  the  more  lucrative  one  of  holding  office, 
and  have  purchased  each  a  horse  and  carriage — on  time ; 
the  Justices  have  each  fitted  up  an  office ;  the  Sheriff  has 
had  partitions  put  into  the  larger  rooms  of  his  'Safe,'  and 
all  are  ready  for  the  next  scene. 

"Act  2,  Scene  2.  Same  as  preceding.  Sheriff's  office. 
Fine,  old-fashioned  fire-place  piled  full  of  burning  wood ; 
table  in  centre,  on  which  are  seen  boxes  of  cigars  and 
bottles.  Wind  blowing  a  gale  outside,  with  snow  beating 
against  the  window. 

"Enter  Keeper  of  the  Keys,  left  centre. 

"Keeper:  'Sam  Wiggins  is  at  the  door,  me  lord,  with 
a  carriageload  of  Knights.' 

"Sheriff:   'Bid  him  enter.' 

"Enter  Sam  Wiggins :  'Cold  night,  me  lord,  to  be 
abroad.' 

"Sheriff:   'From  whence  the  load  of  Knights,  Sam?' 

"Sam:  'From  the  very  edge  of  the  county,  me  lord! 
These  Knights  do  grow  full  proud  and  refuse  to  walk. 
We  must  needs  drive  for  them !' 

"Sheriff:  'Wherefore  and  why  this  complaint,  when 
the  county  pays  the  mileage?  What  is  the  number?' 


90  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

"Sam:  'Six,  and  lusty  fellows  they  are,  all  from  the 
adjoining  county,  where  there  is  much  wood  to  saw,  but 
no  friendly  welcome,  and  no  generous  keep  as  in  our  own 
hospitable  borders.' 

"Sheriff:  'The  hour  grows  late,  Sam.  Away,  and  to 
the  Justice,  that  you  may  have  them  committed  before 
the  stroke  of  twelve,  that  I  may  date  their  arrival  from 
this  day.' 

"Sam  lingers,  as  his  eye  falls  upon  the  bottles  on  the 
table. 

"Sam:   '  'Tis  a  cold  night,  me  lord.'     (Shivering.) 

"Sheriff:    'Yes,  Sam,  but  the  night  is  passing  swift!' 

"Sam:  ''Tis  a  passing  cold  night,  me  lord!'  Backs 
toward  the  table. 

"Sheriff:  'Will  you  be  off?'  (Rises  and  goes  to  the 
window.) 

""Sam  (who  now  stands  with  his  back  to  the  table)  : 
'Yes,  me  lord,  but  me  spirits  run  low  and  I  would  take 
with  me  some  of  the  fire  that  burns  so  cheery.' 

"Sheriff:  'Fill  full  your  pockets  with  the  fire  and  be 
gone.'  ( Still  looking  out  of  the  window,  while  Sam  puts 
into  the  pocket  of  his  great  coat  two  of  the  bottles.) 

"Sam:  'Yes,  me  lord !'     Exit. 

"Scene  3.  An  hour  later.  But,  Ruben,  as  this  is  not  a 
very  nice  'scene,'  I  will  leave  it  out.  Sam  has  returned 
with  two  very  empty  bottles,  but  with  six  lusty  Knights 
in  quite  the  other  condition. 

"The  subsequent  scenes  of  the  play  would  be  much  of  a 
repetition  of  the  foregoing.  In  them  you  would  note  the 
Sheriff's  'Safe,'  very  much  crowded,  but  you  would  see 
few  changes,  as  when  a  'boarder'  would  be  discharged  he 
would  simply  needs  go  down  to  see  Sam  Wiggins,  who 
would  forthwith  'rearrest'  him,  take  him  before  the  Jus 
tice,  who,  as  was  his  duty,  would  commit  him  for  another 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  91 

term,  and  so  would  run  the  play  till  spring. 

"You  would  see  Sam  a  much  better-dresed  man,,  and  he 
might  tell  you  that  he  had  already  paid  for  his  horse  and 
carriage,  as  each  arrest  means  a  fee  and  mileage  for  'car 
riage  hire/  patient  farmers  paying  all  bills.  Sam  might, 
however,  not  deign  to>  notice  you,  as  he  is  now  a  man  of 
much  importance. 

"When  the  end  of  the  year  had  come  around,  you  might 
see  gathered  the  same  county  officers — very  much  im 
proved  in  appearance  since  doffing  the  old  and  putting  on 
the  new  suits  given  them  by  the  tailor  who  had  gotten  the 
contract  at  a  paying  figure  for  clothing  the  'county  poor.' 

"If  you  would  come  to  watch  this  scene  you  would  see 
again  me  lord,  the  high  Sheriff,  several  thousand  dollars 
richer  and  correspondingly  prominent.  When  you  had 
listened  to  the  report  of  the  Treasurer  and  heard  the  Sher 
iff  commend  those  who  had  had  supervision  of  the  county, 
you  would  conclude  that  they  had  followed  his  instruc 
tions  to  the  letter,  but  you  would  no  doubt  wonder  where, 
in  one  poor  little  county,  they  had  found  so  many  roads 
and  bridges  to  look  after. 

"If  you  should  want  to  know  how  well  these  officers, 
had  succeeded  in  spending  the  money  of  the  hard-working 
farmers,  all  you  need  do  would  be  to  compare  the  reports 
with  other  counties,  and  you  would  note  a  vast  difference 
in  the  expenditures." 

"But,  Tom,  what  sort  of  people  are  those  of  this  county 
who  would  allow  their  affairs  to  be  so  conducted?"  I 
asked  in  wonderment. 

"Oh,  they  are  a  fine  enough  people,  but  their  politicians 
have  worked  so  smoothly  along  for  years  that  they  really 
believe  that  the  country  would  go  to  ruin  if  they  did  not 
send  these  same  men  right  back  into  office,  simply  because 
they  belong  to  'our  party,'  and  'our  party'  is  always  the 


02  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

'patriotic    party/    managed     and    run    by   patriots — 'for 
revenue  only.' 

"Oh,  yes,  Ruben,   for  real,  downright,  frugal  politics 
commend  me  to  your  country  districts." 


CHAPTER   XX. 

"Sometimes  everybody  would  sing.  I  joined  in  once,  and 
zvas  thinking  what  a  beautiful  voice  I  had,  when  the 
man  at  my  side  stopped  short  and  looked  at  me.  At 
that  moment  I  heard  myself,  and  didn't  blame  him. 
I  stopped,  too." 

One  Sunday,  shortly  after  reaching  the  city,  I  went  to 
church.  I  had  never  dreamed  that  a  church  could  be  so 
fine.  It  far  surpassed  my  conception  of  Solomon's  Tem 
ple.  Everything  was  so  new  and  strange  to  me. 

I  had  always  loved  music,  but  I  felt  that  day  that  I  had 
never  before  heard  music.  The  whole  end  of  the  house 
was  filled  with  gold  and  silver  pipes  which  reached  nearly 
to  the  ceiling-,  while  a  man  sat  in  front  odt  them  and  played 
on  an  organ.  It  looked  like  a  very  small  instrument,  but, 
oh.  the  music  that  player  could  get  out  of  it ! 

Four  people  did  the  singing.  One  would  sing  until  he 
was  tired,  then  another  and  another  would  start  in  and 
help  him.  Sometimes  they  would  all  four  sing  at  once; 
then  it  seemed  that  the  whole  house  was  full  of  music. 

My  mind  ran  back  tx>  the  little  corner  in  the  "meeting 
house"  at  Highmont,  where  old  "Uncle"  Brunner  used  to 
lead  the  singing.  He  would  often  try  to  carry  all  parts  at 
once,  but  it  was  a  failure,  as  he  would  invariably  run  out 
of  breath  on  the  high  notes ;  but  he  would  keep  right  on, 
although  you  could  only  tell  that  he  \vas  singing  by  sight 
— your  own. 

93 


94 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


Toward  the  last  some  of  the  young  people  felt  it  their 
duty  to  help  him  to  lead,  but  he  could  never  be  induced  to 
accept  their  assistance.  He  thought  it  was  an  innovation, 
and  said :  "For  forty  year  hev  I  dun  ther  leadin',  and  I'll 
keep  it  up  to  ther  end !"  And  he  did.  He  was  a  good  old 
man,  and  we  all  loved  him.  But,  then,  I  was  telling"  about 
the  music  in  this  great  city  church. 

Sometimes  everybody  would  sing.  I  joined  in  once, 
and  was  thinking  what  a  beautiful  voice  I  had,  when  the 
man  at  my  side  stopped  short  and  looked  at  me.  At  that 
moment  I  heard  myself,  and  didn't  blame  him.  I  stopped, 
too. 

It  must  have  been  missionary  Sunday.  The  minister 
preached  the  most  eloquent  sermon  I  had  ever  heard.  He 
drew  a  picture  of  the  benighted  condition  of  the  heathen 
in  foreign  climes,  and  told  how  it  was  the  duty  of  every 
one  present  to  give  their  money  if  they  could  not  go  them 
selves  to  alleviate  the  sad  condition  of  their  less  fortunate 
brothers  and  sisters  in  distant  lands. 

I  noticed  how  he  dwelt  on  the  "distant."  Several  times 
I  thought  of  the  Bowery,  and  wondered  how  far  distant 
they  would  have  to  go  to  find  a  riper  field  for  work. 

His  sermon  was  most  affecting.  Many  ladies  \vept, 
and  the  way  the  men  threw  in  their  money,  I  was  sure 
they  were  touched,  too. 

I  stayed  around  in  the  back  part  of  the  church  after  the 
sermon.  I  wanted  to  get  acquainted.  I  knew  that  these 
people  would  be  anxious  to  gather  in  strangers.  I  knew 
if  they  could  weep  over  some  poor  heathen  whom  they  had 
never  seen  and  only  knew  in  the  abstract,  that  they  would 
welcome  me,  who  had  come  in  without  any  effort  or  tears 
on  their  part ;  but  they  didn't.  None  of  them  even  noticed 
me,  and  when  I  spoke  to  one  good  man  whom  I  had  seen 
thrown  into  the  plate  a  large  bill  of  money,  he  looked  at 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  95 

me  and  said : 

"Well,  what  is  it!"  in  a  cold  wave-like  tone  that  froze 
me  as  solid  as  though  it  had  come  from  "Greenland's  Icy 
Mountains." 

I  came  away  thinking  that  New  York  congregations 
preferred  saving  the  "fig-leaf"  variety  of  heathen,  and 
even  them  at  long  range. 

When  I  told  my  experience  at  the  dinner  table  our 
Heathen  smiled  and  said  I  would  learn  more  the  longer  I 
stayed  in  New  York. 

"I  was  a  member  of  church  myself  when  I  came  here," 
said  he,  "but  I  got  frozen  out.  I  was  reared  in  the  coun 
try,  where  not  to  go  to  church  was  to  be  looked  upon  as 
very  wicked  indeed. 

"At  home  I  knew  everybody,  and  had  become  so  used 
to  cordial  greeting  on  'preaching  day'  that  when  I  came 
to  the  city  I  looked  for  something  of  the  same  spirit  of 
welcome.  But,  oh,  the  change !  Sunday  after  Sunday  I 
went  religiously.  I  even  took  a  Sunday-school  class  of 
children,  thinking  that  in  time  the  frost  might  thaw  out 
of  the  hearts  of  the  good  people,  but  it  never  did.  There 
was  that  cold  formality  found  in  no  other  body  of  people 
in  the  world.  I  used  often  to  wonder  what  would  happen 
to  the  old  fishermen  and  net-makers  of  nineteen  centuries 
ago  should  they  chance  to  drop  in  to  listen  to  the  texts  of 
which  they  were  the  origin.  I  could,  in  mind,  see  the 
fashionable  usher  pompously  telling  them  that  there  was  a 
little  chapel  away  off  on  some  side  street  built  and  main 
tained  for  such  as  them — chapels  built  and  maintained  by 
the  fashionable  rich,  who  no  doubt  look  forward  to  a  re 
ward  for  the  building. 

"After  many  months  I  gave  up  my  class  and  stopped 
gr>5ns:  to  church  entirely.  It  has  been  years  since  I  was 
inside  of  one. 


96  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

"I  find  that  the  cities  are  full  of  young-  men  who  have 
had  the  same  experience  as  mine,  and  yet  the  freezing 
goes  right  on. 

"The  churches  of  the  cities  ever  gain  form,  but  lose  in 
that  cordiality  that  will  draw  to  them  new  life. 

"As  you  have  seen  to-day,  Ruben,  great  interest  is  man 
ifested  in  the  heathen  of  'distant  lands.'  If  this  same  in 
terest  were  shown  in  trying  to  hold  young  men  who  find 
their  way  into  the  churches,  far  more  good  would  be  clone 
and  the  congregations  not  so  lacking  in  men. 

"How  could  a  change  be  made?  you  ask.  Nothing 
easier.  There  should  be  in  every  congregation  a  com 
mittee  of  welcome,  whose  duty  it  would  be  to  see,  as  far 
as  possible,  that  no  stranger  came  and  went  without  carry 
ing  in  his  heart  a  desire  to  come  again. 

"This  committee  would  be  of  far  more  real  worth  to  the 
upbuilding  of  a  church  than  all  the  money  of  the  million 
aire  membership,  who  often,  though  correct  in  every  form, 
are  as  lacking  in  true  worship  as  an  iceberg  of  warmth.'' 

"Do  you  mean  that  every  one  who  came  should  be  made 
welcome?"  asked  the  prim  boarder,  the  old  lady  with  the 
curls,  over  there  at  the  side  table.  "How  would  we  know 
who  they  were.  We  might  not  want  them  in  our  church 
society.  They  might  not  be  proper  people." 

"My  dear  lady,"  replied  the  Heathen,  with  a  question : 
"Does  it  follow,  then,  that  none  but  the  'proper'  are  to  be 
received?  What  did  the  net-maker  know  of  such  when 
he  preached  to  all?  But  that  was  long  ago,  before  the 
days  of  the  'proper.' 

"In  my  country  home,  the  poor  old  widow  who  lives  in 
the  cabin  on  the  mountain  side  sits  beside  the  best  people 
in  our  community,  who,  in  their  simple  worship,  never 
ask  if  it  is  the  'correct  form.' ': 

"What   church    did    you    attend,    Ruben?"    some    one 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  97 

asked. 

"I  don't  know  the  name  of  it,"  said  I,  "but  it  is  that  one, 
you  know,  that  has  the  undertaker's  sign  out  on  the  front." 
There  was  nothing  humorous  in  my  answer,  yet  every 
body  about  the  table  laughed. 


CHAPTER   XXL 

"She  smoothed  my  cheek  with  her  chubby  little  hands, 
and  said  in  the  sweetest  child  voice  I  had  ever  heard, 
'Oh,  poor  mister,  are  you  Jiurtcd  much?  I  is  so 
sorry  I  rurid  across  the  street.' '' 

One  afternoon,  while  I  was  taking-  my  usual  walk  on 
Fifth  avenue,  always  looking  for  Bill,  I  watched  the 
crowds  of  people  driving,  walking  or  talking  together  on 
the  sidewalk.  Suddenly  there  was  a  great  commotion 
two  or  three  blocks  away.  I  looked  in  the  direction  and 
was  horrified  to  see  a  horse  hitched  to  a  grocer's  wagon 
"running  off."  He  was  coming  right  to\vard  where  I 
was  standing,  coming,  as  \ve  used  to  say,  "like  the  wind." 
Everybody  ran  for  the  housesteps,  while  the  carriages  in 
the  road  gave  him  a  wide  berth. 

I  don't  know  how  it  happened,  but  it  must  have  been 
the  natural  perversity  of  young  children  that  caused  a 
beautiful  little  girl  to  start  to  run  across  the  street  almost 
in  front  of  the  "runaway."  Women  screamed,,  while  the 
men  stood  as  though  they  were  paralyzed.  I  never  get 
scared  until  after  the  danger  is  past.  At  the  time  I  need 
my  senses  I  usually  have  them  about  me. 

I  ran  out  from  the  sidewalk  and  with  a  quick  rush  got 
the  child  beyond  the  wheel  line,  but  was  less  fortunate 
myself,  as  one  of  my  long  legs  got  in  the  way  and  was 
broken  just  below  the  knee.  I  tried  to  get  up ;  then  I 
found  what  had  happened  to  me.  When  I  saw  that  the 

93 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  99 

little  girl  was  safe  I  didn't  mind  my  own  hurt,  especially 
when  she  smoothed  my  cheek  with  her  chubby  little  hands 
and  said  in  the  sweetest  child  voice  I  had  ever  heard :  "Oh, 
poor  mister,  are  you  hurted  ?  I  is  so  sorry  I  run'd  across 
the  street." 

By  this  time  I  was  surrounded  by  a  dense  mass  of  peo 
ple.  All  they  did  was  to  shut  out  the  air,  which  I  needed 
more  than  I  needed  their  interest. 

Long  before  the  wagon  from  the  hospital  came  for  me 
as  many  as  six  different  men  gave  me  their  cards  or  the 
cards  o<f  some  friend.  Every  one  was  "the  best  lawyer  in 
New  York  city,"  and  "made  a  specialty  of  just  such 
cases." 

I  was  afraid  I  was  getting  "out  of  my  head."  What 
were  these  men  talking  about  lawyers  for?  I  needed  a 
doctor,  not  a  lawyer,  so  I  asked :  "What  has  a  lawyer  to 
do  with  me?  He  can't  fix  my  leg." 

"No,  no.  We  don't  mean  that.  You  have  met  with  an 
accident;  careless  driver;  very  rich  grocer  owns  the 
wagon.  Sue  him  and  get  big  damages.  Won't  cost  you  a 
cent.  We'll  collect  and  give  you  half." 

And  this  was  New  York  city !  "Leeches,  parasites,"  I 
cried,  in  anger,  "do  you  suppose  I  could  take  money  from 
a  man  who  lias  the  misfortune  of  having  a  careless  driver? 
a  man  who  would  not  intentionally  hurt  me  for  anything? 
Away;  get  me  a  doctor,"  for  my  leg  was  beginning  to 
pain  after  the  numbing  shock  had  worn  off. 

The  wagon,  with  a  big,  clanging  bell,  came,  and  with  it 
two  very  young  doctors. 

They  examined  my  leg  and  thought  it  was  broken,  after 
much  unnecessary  twisting.  They  were  not  real  certain, 
but  were  pretty  sure  that  it  was. 

For  my  part  I  was  quite  certain ;  but,  then,  I  was  not  a 
young  doctor. 


100  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

They  took  me  to  a  fine  hospital  just  west  of  the  avenue, 
carried  me  upstairs  by  means  of  a  little  movable  room 
called  an  elevator,  and  laid  me  on  one  of  a  long  row  of 
pretty  little  white  cots. 

The  doctors,  when  they  learned  how  it  had  occurred, 
treated  me  very  kindly,  and  in  a  short  time  had  my  leg 
set,  and  left  me  feeling  quite  comfortable. 

It  could  not  have  been  two  hours  after  the  accident 
when  a  young  man  came  hurriedly  into  the  big  room  and 
asked :  "Where  is  he  ?  Where  is  he  ?"  And  when  I  was 
pointed  out  by  the  nurse,  he  came  with  extended  hand 
and  with  such  a  cordial  smile  that  I  quite  forgot  the  pain 
for  the  moment. 

"My  dear  friend,"  as  I  must  call  you,  "we  owe  you  a 
thousand  thanks.  It  was  my  little  sister  whose  life  you 
saved  at  the  risk  of  your  own."  Then  turning  to  the  doc 
tor  who  was  with  him :  "Come,  place  this  young  man  in 
the  best  room  you  have  in  the  hospital,  and  spare  nothing 
for  his  comfort. 

"I  cannot  express  what  we  feel  toward  you.  Helen 
would  surely  have  been  killed  had  you  not  risked  your  life 
for  her.  If  you  but  knew  the  bright  little  sunbeam  that  she 
is,  you  could  then  know  the  full  weight  of  gratitude  we 
owe  to  you.  But  I  will  not  talk  too  long  now.  I  will 
come  again  to-morrow. 

"Is  there  any  message  you  would  have  me  send  to  your 
family  ?" 

"No,"  said  I,  "my  family  must  not  know  of  my  acci 
dent.  It  would  terribly  frighten  them  and  would  do  no 
good.  I  would,  however,  like  if  you  would  write  to  my 
landlady." 

The  nurse  went  for  paper  and  pen,  and  I  told  him  to 
send  the  following  note : 

"Mv  DKAR  MAD.-UI  :    I  am  verv  sorrv,  but  I  find  I  will 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  IOI 

be  compelled  to  change  my  boarding  place  for  a  while; 
not  that  I  am  displeased  with  your  house,  but  circum 
stances  cause  this  change. 

"Kindly  take  care  of  my  carpet-sack  and  my  umbrella." 

The  young  man  smiled  and  said :  "The  landlady  will 
think  you  are  spending  a  few  days  with  the  'captain  of 
the  precinct.' !; 

The  Statesman  told  me,  when  I  got  well,  that  that  was 
what  they  did  think,  especially  the  Heathen,  who  said : 

"I  am  not  surprised.  I  thought  he  was  that  kind !" 
But  when  they  saw  it  in  the  papers,  written  up  foolish 
like,  just  as  though  I  was  a  real  hero,  even  the  Heathen 
remarked : 

"Well,  you  can't  always  tell !" 

As  the  young  man  left  me  he  gave  me  his  card : 

EDWARD  S.  DEHERTBERN, 

-  Fifth  Avenue. 

"We  will  soon  have  you  out  again,"  and  went,  as  he 
came,  with  a  smile. 

1  had  never  met  so  fine  a  young  man  as  he.  Tall,  yet 
so  well  proportioned  that  his  six  feet  two  stature  seemed 
just  right.  He  had  brown  hair  and  eyes  and  a  ruddy 
color  that  indicated  great  vigor. 

The  room  into  which  I  was  removed  was  large,  scrupu 
lously  clean  and  with  just  the  necessary  furnishings. 
Nothing  whatever  of  a  gloomy  character,  as  one  never 
having  been  inside  of  a  hospital  would  expect,  from  the 
nature  of  the  place,  to  find. 

And  the  nurse.  Well,  I  am  not  going  to  describe  her 
further  than  to  say  that  she  was  the  kind  of  which  they 
make  angels.  She  all  but  made  me  forget  that  I  was 
hurt,  and  to  almost  hope  that  mine  would  be  a  lingering 
case.  It  was  not  what  she  said,  for  she  spoke  very  little, 


102  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

but  the  kind,  gentle  manner  in  which  she  did  everything, 
from  the  smoothing  out  of  a  pillow  to  administering  the 
drops  to  keep  down  my  fever.  I  could  not  but  feel  that 
of  all  noble  callings  in  the  world  none  could  compare  with 
that  of  the  nurse.  She  gives  up  home  and  all  pleasures; 
casts  behind  her  everything  dear  to  the  heart  of  woman, 
and  devotes  her  life  to  the  ills  and  sufferings  of  her 
fellow-beings. 

Here  was  I,  a  great,  awkward  young  man,  with  no  cul 
ture  or  city  polish,  and  knew  very  little  aside  from  what 
I  had  learned  in  the  far-removed  community  of  the  moun 
tain,  where  to  gain  the  bare,  necessities  of  physical  life 
was  the  chief  aim  of  existence,  and  yet  this  woman  was 
treating  me  as  gently  as  though  I  had  been  a  king. 

It  is  the  humanity  and  not  the  man  to  which  they 
minister. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"Oh,  the  kiss  of  a  child!    How  it  thrills!"  said  I. 
"Yes"  said  Edward;  "and  the  older  the  child  the  greater 
the  thrill,  especially  if  a  girl  child!" 

It  was  with  great  pleasure  that  I  looked  forward  next 
day  to  Edward's  promised  visit. 

The  pleasure  of  his  coming  was  even  greater  than  I  had 
hoped  for,  as  he  brought  Helen  with  him. 

"She  would  come  with  me,"  said  Edward. 

"Yes,  dear  Mister  Ruben ;  and  see  the  flowers  I  bringed 
you.  Mamma  says  if  I  am  very,  very  good  I  may  come 
often.  Do  you  want  me  to  come  often,  Mister  Ruben? 
I  won't  be  in  the  way.  Tousin  Wallie  always  says  he 
likes  to  have  me  come  to  see  him." 

"There,  there,  Helen,  you  must  not  talk  so  much.  You 
will  tire  Ruben,  and  he  will  not  want  you  to  come  any 
more."  Then  to  me  Edward  turned  and  said:  "She  is  a 
great  pet  at  the  office,  where  I  often  take  her.  'Tousin 
Wallie,'  as  she  calls  him,  is  one  of  the  young  men  in  the 
office,  who  always  'makes'  over  her  a  good  deal." 

I  just  couldn't  help  saying.  "You  little  angel,  you  can 
never,  never  come  too  often  to  please  me." 

"I  ain't  a  angel,  Mister  Ruben,  but  mamma  says  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  you  I  would  be  one  by  now,  though.  Say, 
Mister  Ruben,  can  angels  come  back  when  they  go  away? 
I  wouldn't  want  to  go  away  ever  if  I  couldn't  come  back 
to  see  mamma  and  papa,  and  Beatrice  and  Edward,  and — 

103 


104 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


oh,  yes,  Tousin  Wallie,  too.  Would  you,  Mister  Ruben? 
Now  stop,  brother  Edward.  Mamma  said  I  might  talk  to 
Mister  Ruben  a  little  bit  of  a  bit/''  and  she  prattled  on  in 
her  sweet,  childish  way  till  I  was  wild  with  joy,  for  I  am 
never  happier  than  I. am  with  children  around  me. 

"Have  you  any  little  girls  at  your  house,  Mister  Ruben? 
What's  their  name?  Have  they  pretty  dollies  like  I 
have?  How  do  they  play?  Do  they  always  have  to  be 
dressed?  Does  their  nurse  always  say  'don't,  'don't' ?'' 

I  told  her  that  1  had  two  sweet  little  sisters,  Pauline  and 
Eveline  May,  who  were  near  her  age. 

"Helen,"  said  I,  ''they  do  not  always  have  to  be  'dressed 
up/  but  can  put  on  dresses  they  do  not  have  to  be  careful 
of,  and  can  play  in  a  beautiful  little  brook  that  runs  near 
the  house.  They  can  make  mud  pies  and  can  even  go 
'barefoot'  in  warm  weather.  They  have  real  rag  dolls, 
and  are  so  happy  with  them.  They  have  little  cousins  to 
play  with,  and  two  very  big  black  dogs,  Carlo  and  Brutus, 
who  play  ball  with  them.  The  children  throw  the  ball 
and  the  big  dogs  run,  oh,  so  fast,  to  get  it  and  bring  it 
back,  and  almost  ask  to  have  it  thrown  again.  The  chil 
dren  can  hitch  Carlo  and  Brutus  to  a  little  wagon  and  ride 
to  the  village  store  for  candy.  And  Helen,  their  nurse, 
never  says  'Don't !'  for  they  have  no  nurse." 

"Oh,  Mister  Ruben,  do  they  live  in  heaven?  That 
sounds  just  like  it!  I  never,  never  can  do  anything  like 
that.  I  always  must  be  dressed  up,  and  nurse  is  al'ays 
saying  'Don't !  Don't !' — I  never  can  do  anything  I  want, 
like  Pauline  and  Eveline  May.  I  want  a  rag  doll,  brother 
Edward,  and  a  brook  to  play  in,  and  old  clothes,  and 
cousins,  and  big  black  dogs  like  Carlo  and  Brutus.  I 
don't  like  mean  little  city  dogs,  for  they  won't  do  a  thing 
but  sit  around." 

"Yes,  yes,  Helen.      We  must  not  stay  too  long.      The 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


105 


nurse  said  that  Ruben  should  not  talk  too  much." 

"He  don't  have  to  talk  too  much.  I  won't  let  him.  Do 
I,  Mister  Ruben?  Now  we  are  going,  but  I  will  come 
back  again  ever  single  time  mamma  will  let  me.  Say, 
mister,  may  I  kiss  you  good-by?  Sister  Beatrice  says 
only  the  little  wee  girls  may  kiss  the  big  young  men,  but 
I  saw  her  kiss  Tousin  Wallie  one  day,  and  she  is  a  way, 
way  big  girl — so  big."  And  her  little  hands  were  held 
away  up. 

"Oh,  the  kiss  of  a  child  !    How  it  thrills  !"  said  I. 
"Yes,"    said    Edward.      "And  the  older  the  child  the 
greater  the  thrill,  especially  if  a  girl  child!"     He  was  so 
cheery  that  day. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

"You  know,  Ruben,  the  country  widow  is  gregarious,  and 
seldom  travels  except  in  pairs." 

As  Helen  talked  of  her  Tousin  Wallie,  I  could  not  but 
think  of  my  Bill.  What  had  become  of  him?  Would  I 
ever  find  him  in  this  great  city,  which  seemed  greater 
every  time  I  went  out  and  found  new  parts  of  it  ? 

When  I  wrote  home  for  his  address,  his  mother  was 
away.  She  had  gone  to  the  West  somewhere  and  would 
not  return  for  months. 

Sister  Anna  attended  to  the  letter  writing  for  the  family. 
"Ruben,"  she  wrote,  "we  all  think  that  you  had  better 
come  home  at  once,  if  you  do  not  find  Bill,  as  we  are  so 
afraid  you  will  get  lost. 

"You  did  not  write  for  so  long  after  you  reached  New 
York,  and  besides,  your  letter  was  delayed  somewhere, 
that  it  was  nearly  three  weeks  before  we  heard  from  you. 

"You  may  think  the  condition  of  the  family  mind  was 
in  by  the  time  we  did  hear ! 

"What  made  matters  worse,  all  the  old  maiden  ladies 
and  lone  widows  for  miles  around  Highmont  came  to  see 
mother,  'to  cheer  her  up,'  as  they  said,  and  then  stayed  to 
tell  her  about  young  men  who  had  gone  to  that  great, 
wicked  city  and  had  never  been  heard  of  again.  Then, 
when  they  were  ready  to  go,  and  had  said  'good-by'  so 
many  times  that  I  had  quite  forgot  what  the  word 

106 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  107 

meant,  they  would  begin  all  over  again.  They  would 
'settle'  down  and  say:  'But  then,  Mary,  you  must  not  give 
up  hope.  Ruben  may  not  be  real  bright,  yet  he  will  find 
his  way.' 

"If  there  were  more  than  one — and  you  know,  Ruben, 
the  country  widow  is  gregarious  and  seldom  travels  ex 
cept  in  pairs — they  would  sit  out  the  afternoon,  starting  in 
with  you  as  'the  lost  boy'  and  ending  up  with  how  their 
own  dear  companions  had  'suffered  toward  the  last,' 
each  one  trying  to  outdo  the  other  in  the  graphic  recital. 

"Oh,  Ruben,  that  was  a  cheerful  time,  I  assure  you ! 
But  I  never  want  them  to  think  of  you  as  'lost'  again. 

"If  you  do  get  lost,  don't  say  a  word  about  it,  as  I  never 
want  the  old  maiden  ladies  and  lone  widows  to  hear  of  it. 
They  might  again  come  to  'cheer  us  up.' 

"The  only  thing  that  could  stop  the  doleful  recital 
when  they  once  got  fairly  under  way  was  for  some  'old 
maid'  to  say  that  a  'certain  widower'  had  called  to  see  her 
'Sunday  night.'  At  that  the  'dearly  departed'  ailments 
and  all  were  forgotten  and  merged  into  the  one  subject, 
for  the  moment,  'that  certain  widower.' 

"You  say,  Ruben,  that  New  York  is  so  large  that  you 
can  stand  at  one  end  and  cannot  see  the  other !  You  do 
not  mean  to  tell  me  that  there  are  houses  all  the  way,  do 
you  ? 

"You  had  better  come  home  at  once,  Ruben.  Oh,  if 
anything  should  happen  to  you,  or  you  should  get  sick ! 
I  don't  dare  let  my  mind  dwell  on  it." 

And  this  was  the  situation  when  the  "anything  hap 
pened"  to  me,  Fortunately,  I  had  written  the  morning 
of  the  accident  and  said  that  I  had  a  number  of  good 
friends  who  had  promised  to  see  that  I  did  not  get  "lost." 

I  did  not  need  to  write  until  I  had  a  reply  to  my  letter, 


108  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

when,  by  that  time,  I  hoped  to  be  able  to  write,  if  but  a 
few  lines,  and  keep  them  from  being  unnecessarily  wor 
ried  about  me. 

I  did  not  think  it  wise,  in  any  event,  to  tell  of  my  acci 
dent,  as,  should  the  old  maiden  ladies  or  lone  widows  hear 
of  it,  they  would  go  in  delegations  to  tell  mother  of  cases 
they  knew  about  where  the  patient  had  died  of  measles, 
all  from  a  broken  leg.  No,  I  would  write  very  short  but 
very  cheerful  letters  for  a  while. 

What  with  Helen's  daily  bouquet  of  flowers  and  the 
choice  fruits  with  which  Edward  kept  me  so  well  sup 
plied,  I  felt  I  was  indeed  a  favored  invalid. 

Helen  had  kept  her  word.  She  did  come  "every  single 
time  mamma  would  let  her,'  which  was  nevei  to  often  for 
me. 

Her  bright  sayings  and  sweet  ways  quite  endeared  her 
to  the  nurse  and  the  doctors,  especially  to  Dr.  Xeill,  a 
jolly,  bald-headed  bachelor.  He  would  often  say :  "Helen, 
you  ar^e  my  little  girl,  ain't  you?'' 

She  was  very  playful  with  him  and  enjoyed  his  romps 
with  her. 

One  day  he  was  "mussing"  her  hair,  \vhen  she  said : 

"Doctor,  don't  muss  my  hair.  Xurse  will  scold  if  I  get 
'rats'  in  it!" 

"Helen,"  said  he,  "you  know  you  said  you  were  my 
little  girl.  If  you  are  my  little  girl,  your  hair  is  mine, 
too." 

"Well,  doctor,  if  it  is  yours,  you  better  cut  it  off  and 
put  it  on,  and  then  you  wouldn't  be  bald-headed." 

The  doctor  never  "mussed  her  hair"  again  after  that. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"A  thousand  years,  more  or  less,  to  a  mummy  is  of  little 
matter— to  the  mummy." 

When  the  nurse  allowed  me  to  read  a  little  each  day  I 
quite  prized  the  books  that  Edward  brought  me  from  his 
library,  and  none  of  them  more  than  the  books  of  travel. 

When  he  saw  that  I  was  interested  in  other  countries, 
he  said  that  we  were  kindred  spirits. 

He  was  interested  in  reading  about  them,  but  far  more 
so  in  visiting  them. 

When  I  found  he  had  traveled  in  many  of  the  lands 
about  which  I  had  read,  I  soon  had  him  telling  me  of  his 
wanderings.  You  know  there  is  nothing  that  \vill  so 
please  a  traveled  man  as  to  listen  to  his  story. 

"Ruben,  of  all  the  countries  about  which  you  have 
read,  which  one  interests  you  the  most?"  asked  Edward 
one  day,  when  I  could  see  that  he  was  in  a  reminiscent 
mood. 

"They  all  interest  me,"  said  I.  "Some  of  them  for  one 
reason,  some  for  another.  I  like  Egypt  because  of  its 
strange  unraveling  history.  \Ve  know  so  little  about  it, 
but  are  ever  learning  more.  New  'birds'  tell  some  strange 
old  story  each  year.  They  tell  us  of  a  civilization  so  far 
in  the  past  that  we  wonder  at  our  not  being  further  ahead 
now. 

"I  never  could  understand  why  the  world  should  have 
gone  backward,  with  all  the  knowledge  it  once  had.  It 

109 


I10  MY    FRIEND    BILL. 

was  as  though  we  should  now  deliberately  break  our 
watches  and  time  pieces  of  all  kinds,  and  eat  and  sleep  by 
the  sun  dial,  and  yet  that  was  what  the  nations  all  seem 
to  have  done  after  Egypt's  brilliant  sun  of  civilization 
had  gone  down.  They  groped  in  darkness  a  long  while 
before  even  a  little  ray  of  dawn  shot  up  again." 

"It  is  very  odd,  Ruben,  that  you  should  speak  of  Egypt. 
And  from  merely  reading  of  it  form  almost  the  same 
opinions  of  it  that  I  have  formed  by  much  travel  in  that 
strange  country. 

"\Yhen  I  stood  in  the  presence  of  those  vast  pyramids, 
looked  upon  the  silent  Sphinx,  visited  the  great  temples 
built  to  gods  of  stone,  or  groped  my  way  through  the 
rock-hewn  tombs,  deep  in  the  earth,  the  awe  in  which  1 
held  the  ancient  builders  of  all  these  giant  works  was 
greater  than  I  have  felt  in  any  other  land. 

"What  makes  the  feeling  deeper,  is  to  look  upon  these 
enduring  piles  of  stone,  and  then  see  around  one  the 
children  of  the  builders — a  race  so  degenerate,  that  one's 
most  acute  imagination  cannot  even  dimly  see  the  face  of 
the  sire  in  the  offspring. 

"I  spent  four  months  last  year  in  Egypt,  and  was  for 
tunate  in  having  as  a  companion  Prof.  Blake,  a  rising 
young  Egyptologist. 

"It  was  like  going  through  college  with  a  'pony.'  I 
had  all  the  pleasure  of  knowing,  without  the  labor  of 
study. 

"The  professor  could  read  the  inscriptions  of  birds  and 
figures,  cut  into  the  stone,  as  you  would  read  a  book. 

"He  was  so  bright  and  genial  that  those  months  seem 
now  as  a  pleasant  dream." 

I  asked  if  Egypt  was  not  a  very  hot  and  dusty  coun 
try,  and  if  he  did  not  at  times  grow  tired  of  seeing  noth 
ing  but  ruins,  and  black  people  who  cared  only  for  the 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  Ill 

money  they  could  beg,  my  notion  of  them  being  that  they 
were  a  race  of  beggars. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  he,  "there  are  always  many  tourists  in 
Egypt,  and  they  are  not  long  in  attaching  themselves  to 
one  who  can  read  the  hieroglyphics  for  them. 

"The  Professor  always  had  people  around  him,  so  that 
we  were  never,  or  seldom,  alone." 

This  opened  up  the  way  for  a  new  line  of  conversation. 

I  could  see  his  face  light  up  and  he  began  as  though  to 
tell  a  story. 

"I  shall  never  forget,"  said  -he,  "one  of  our  excursions. 
A  new  tomb  had  just  been  discovered  some  miles  up  the 
Nile  from  Memphis.  We  were  among  the  first  to  visit 
it. 

"We  left  the  small  steamer  at  early  dawn.  There  were 
on  the  boat,  besides  ourselves  and  our  guides,  a  gentle 
man  and  two  ladies,  with  their  guides. 

"We  had  spoken  casually  to  the  gentleman,  but  had  not 
seen  the  ladies.  We  told  him  that  we  were  going  to  the 
newly-discovered  tomb,  and  always  glad  of  company, 
were  pleased  to  learn  that  their  destination  was  the  same. 

"Just  before  leaving  the  steamer  the  two  ladies,  heavily 
veiled  (the  sun  is  so  hot  that  ladies,  to  protect  their  faces, 
must  go  veiled),  came  on  deck  and  joined  the 
gentlemen. 

"We  saw  but  little  of  them  until  we  reached  the  tomb ; 
but,  Ruben,  do  you  know  that  all  the  way  I  continually 
found  myself  wondering  about  those  ladies.  'What  do 
they  look  like?'  'Are  they  the  typical  women  tourists — 
as  uninteresting  in  face  as  they  are  bright  in  mind  ?'  'Are 
they  old  or  young?'  were  some  of  my  mental  questions. 
What  I  had  noticed  as  they  walked  across  the  deck  was 
that  one  of  them  had  the  most  graceful  figure  and  car 
riage  I  had  ever  seen.  She  was  rather  tall  and  bore  her- 


H2  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

self  like  a  queen. 

"I  knew  by  the  gentleman  that  they  were  of  aristo 
cratic  birth. 

"One  gets  in  the  way,  while  traveling,  of  trying  to 
analyze  the  nationality  of  the  people  one  meets,  but  I  was 
at  a  loss  to  determine  the  nationality  of  the  only  one  of 
this  party  I  could  see.  In  some  ways  he  seemed  to  be 
English,  and  yet  again  there  were  mannerisms  that  were 
purely  American.  He  was  below  middle  life,  tall,  and 
had  the  air  of  a  soldier.  I  knew  by  his  manner  of  speak 
ing  to  his  guides  that  he  was  used  to  giving  commands. 

"No  doubt  had  I  seen  the  faces  of  the  ladies  as  they 
came  on  deck  I  would  not  have  given  them  a  second 
thought,  as  I  seldom  am  attracted  by  a  face,  unless  there 
is  something  very  striking  in  it.  But  those  veils  !  'What 
was  behind  them?'  And  so  my  mind  ran  on,  all  the  way 
to  the  tomb,  which  we  reached  not  far  from  the  middle  of 
the  day. 

"Being  more  used  to  'donkey  train'  than  their  party — 
who,  we  noticed,  were  not  desirous  of  joining  us — we 
were  possibly  an  hour  ahead  of  them. 

"This  particular  tomb  was  much  like  others  we  had 
explored.  Great  heaps  of  fresh  sand  lay  all  about  the 
mouth  of  the  excavation,  showing  that  the  work  had  but 
recently  been  completed. 

"Our  attendants  lighted  the  lamps  and  made  ready  the 
ropes  to  lower  us  down  into  the  main  shaft  of  the  tomb. 

"Three  of  the  guides  were  let  down  writh  the  ropes  and 
the  Professor  and  I  followed.  The  darkness,  a  few  feet 
away  from  the  bottom  of  the  shaft,  was  oppressive,  but 
\vhen  the  lamps  were  turned  on  full  we  could  see  very 
well. 

"The  guides  led  the  way  through  many  galleries,  until 
we  had  come  to  a  large  octagonal  vault-like  room,  which 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  113 

we  entered  through  a  high,  narrow  opening  at  a  right 
angle  with  the  gallery,  of  which  this  was  the  end. 

"We  had  never  seen  one  so  constructed  before.  On 
close  examination  the  Professor  found  the  walls  covered 
with  hieroglyphics. 

"These  walls  were  as  smooth  as  polished  glass,  and  the 
hieroglyphics,  deeply  cut,  could  be  followed  readily  by  the 
Professor,  who  was  soon  absorbed  in  their  translation. 

"  'Wonderful!  wonderful!'  he  exclaimed.  'This  is  the 
tomb  we  have  long  sought.  From  other  wall  writings  we 
knew  it  must  exist,  but  never  until  now  was  there  the 
faintest  knowledge  of  where  it  was.  This  discovery  will 
set  the  tide  of  Egyptologists  to  this  spot.  I  must  be  the 
first  to  herald  it  to  the  world.'  And  he  was. 

"No  seeker  for  gold,  on  'striking  it  rich/  could  be  more 
wildly  elated  than  was  he  at  this  moment. 

"  'The  old  king,'  said  he,  'who  built  this  tomb,  must 
have  been  a  poetical  lover.  Listen  to  this  tribute  to  his 
Queen,  whose  mummy  lies  in  this  crypt.'  I  could  not  see 
much  poetry  about  the  tribute,  but  the  Professor  said 
that  we  would  have  to  fill  in  certain  words.  I  couldn't 
but  think  that  much  of  our  own  poetry  is  built  on  the 
same  lines.  If  the  right  words  are  filled  in  and  enough  of 
them  in  their  proper  places,  the  poetry  might  be  good. 

"As  he  read  on  he  would  occasionally  stop  to  comment. 
'Cleopatra  must  have  descended  from  this  queen,  whose 
beauty,  through  all  the  generations  followed  down,  with 
out  loss  to  form  or  face,  as  no  description  of  Cleopatra's 
rare  beauty  could  excel  this  tribute.' 

"Then  he  told  me  her  points  of  excellence,  and  had  me 
so  wrought  up  that  I  forgot  where  I  was,  forgot  the 
veiled  ladies,  forgot  everything,  and  traveled  back 
through  all  the  thousands  of  years  to  where  this  queen 
stands  in  the  flesh.  I  see  her  on  the  throne  beside  her 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

lover  king ;  see  her  receive  the  acclaim  of  her  millions  on 
millions  of  willing  worshiping  subjects.  See  her  ruling 
Egypt  in  the  zenith  of  its  splendor — her  ships  are  carry 
ing  the  commerce  of  the  world  and  all  the  world  is  paying 
her  tribute — but  hold — what  is  that !  Is  it  a  fancy,  or  is 
it  true  ?  See,  she  stands  before  me  in  the  tomb !  there — • 
there  in  the  narrow  doorway!  Ah,  even  more  beautiful 
than  the  tribute.  My  senses  leave  me,  and  all  the  world 
is  a  blank. 

"When  I  came  to  my  senses  again,  the  vault  was  full 
of  people.  'Edward,'  begged  the  Professor,  'what  has 
come  over  you ;  here,  a  drop  of  this  will  bring  you  around 
all  right.' 

"As  I  open  my  eyes,  there  is  the  gentleman  of  the 
morning  and  the  two  ladies,  but  they  are  not  veiled  now. 

"I  was  much  embarrassed  and  excused  myself,  laying 
my  faintness  to  the  closeness  of  the  vault.  At  sight  of 
the  younger  lady,  however,  I  felt  a  return  of  the  weak 
ness,  as  her  face  was  a  true  likeness  of  the  queen.  Ruben, 
I  have  never  before  or  since  seen  woman  so  beautiful  as 
she. 

'"All  were  pleased  with  the  Professor's  translations  and 
g-ave  me  but  scant  notice.  I  was  glad  of  this,  for  I  could 
the  better  watch  the  face  which  had  but  a  moment  be 
fore  robbed  me  of  my  senses. 

"  'Father,  mother  and  daughter,'  was  my  mental  com 
ment.  I  wondered  at  my  sudden  loss  of  interest  in 
hieroglyphics ;  I  could  see  but  little  in  them.  What  did  I 
care  for  a  queen  who  had  been  a  mummy  for  three  or 
perhaps  four  or  five  thousand  years.  A  thousand  years, 
more  or  less,  to  a  mummy,  is  of  little  matter — to  a 
mummy  and  less  to  me,  so  long  as  certain  other  queens 
can  walk  about. 

"I  really  began  to  have  a  distaste  for  hieroglyphics, 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  115 

seeing  the  great  interest  this  unknown  family  took  in 
them  and  through  them,  in  the  Professor.  I  snapped  my 
watch  case  several  times,  and  although  it  rang  out  in  the 
close  vault  loud  and  clear,  the  Professor  did  not  seem  to 
hear  it  once  as  he  came  sailing  along  down  the  ages,  talk 
ing  about  Dynasties.  As  he  was  getting  along  about  the 
Sixth,  I  knew  if  I  did  not  stop  him,  that  it  would  be  as 
dark  outside  as  it  was  in  the  tomb  by  the  time  he  had 
reached  the  Thirtieth,  so  I  just  spoke  up  and  said:  'I 
am  sorry  to  stop  this  highly  edifying  discourse  on  Mum- 
myology  and  dynastical  research,  but  if  we  expect  to 
reach  the  boat  and  dinner  by  dark,  we  had  better  set  out 
at  once.'  Would  you  believe  me,  Ruben,  they  all  looked 
as  though  I  had  done  them  an  injury,  so  much  were  they 
interested  in  the  Professor's  talk,  but  when  we  got  out 
to  the  shaft  of  the  tomb  and  tried  to  make  the  guides 
above  hear  us,  and  draw  us  up,  then  it  was  my  turn  for  a 
little  of  their  attention. 

"All  our  calling  and  shaking  of  the  rope  had  no  effect. 
We  tried  to  make  some  one  of  the  guides  climb  up,  but  all 
shook  their  heads.  'Me  no  sailor,  me  no  climb  rope.' 

"I  knew  that  the  Professor  could  talk  about  'birds'  and 
things,  but  when  it  came  to  action,  he  was  as  helpless  as 
a  child.  It  devolved  upon  me  to  bring  them  out.  It 
had  been  three  years  since  I  left  college,  but  the  way  I 
went  up  that  rope  you  would  have  thought  I  was  still  a 
college  boy  well  up  in  gymnastics. 

"When  I  got  to  the  top  of  the  shaft  I  found  the  guides 
as  sound  asleep  as  their  donkeys,  lying  in  the  sun  as 
though  they  had  not  a  care  in  life.  Only  the  dogs  of 
Constantinople  can  beat  an  Egyptian  tomb  guide  when 
it  comes  to  sleeping — he  comes  by  it  so  naturally — his  an 
cestors  have  been  asleep  so  long.  Ruben,  this  is  an 
Egyptian  joke." 


Ii6  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "it  is  a  little  dark!" 

"I  soon  had  the  party  safely  out  of  the  tomb,  and  we 
made  haste  to  return. 

"Do  what  I  could,  while  in  the  presence  of  the  'queen' 
— as  she  has  ever  been  to  me — there  was  that  foolish  boy- 
like  'in  love  at  first  sight'  sort  of  feeling,  that  showed  out 
so  plainly  that  she  must  have  thought  me  a  very  weak 
young  man,  indeed.  And  that,  too,  at  a  time  when  I 
wished  to  appear  at  my  best.  It  is  always  that  way. 
Ruben,  were  you  ever  in  love?" 

I  made  as  though  I  did  not  hear  him,  and  he  went  on 
with  his  story,  which  had  become  most  intensely  interest 
ing  to  me. 

"Long  before  we  reached  the  steamer  that  night,"  con 
tinued  Edward,  "they  must  have  wished  many  times  that 
they  had  not  been  so  interested  in  Egyptology. 

"We  lost  our  way  in  the  darkness  and  did  not  reach 
the  steamer  until  midnight. 

"It  was  a  mystery  to  me  why  those  guides  had 
missed  the  way,  but  one  day  in  Memphis,  shortly  after,  I 
met  one  of  them,  rather  a  bright  fellow,  and  asked  him 
for  an  explanation.  At  first  all  he  would  say  was  that : 
'All  sand,  no  path,  very  dark.  Lose  way.'  His  manner 
was  so  mysterious  in  saying  these  few  simple  sentences, 
that  I  led  him  out  of  hearing  of  any  passerby  and  slipping 
into  his  hand  the  'open  sesame'  of  every  Egyptian  lip,  he 
told  me  in  substance  that  the  chief  guides  of  the  two 
parties  had  arranged  with  another  chief  to  fall  upon  us 
and  rob  us,  but  that  for  some  reason  their  plans  had  mis 
carried.  I  shuddered  to  think  of  what  might  have  been 
the  result,  as  these  treacherous  fiends,  who  care  only  for 
money,  might  have  murdered  us  there  in  the  dark. 

"It  was  so  late  when  we  reached  the  boat  that  we  were 
all  too  tired  and  hungry  for  anything  but  something  to 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  117 

eat,  and  then  off  to  sleep. 

"Next  morning,  as  we  awoke,  we  found  ourselves  in 
Memphis.  The  ladies  had  not  yet  come  on  deck  when 
we  left  the  steamer,  so  all  we  could  do  was  to  bid  the 
gentleman  a  'tourist's'  good-by  and  seek  our  hotel.  I 
hoped  later  to  meet  this  interesting  family,  but  they 
dropped  out  of  my  world  almost  as  soon  as  they  had  en 
tered  it. 

"We  remained  in  Memphis  a  week  longer,  but  I  never 
before  took  so  little  interest  in  sightseeing.  There  was 
nothing  pleasing  in  anything  I  saw;  in  fact,  I  scarcely 
saw  anything.  I  was  ever  watching,  watching  for  a  face. 
I  might  be  in  a  temple  or  a  tomb,  to  see  which  others  have 
traveled  thousands  of  miles,  but  I  saw  no  beauty  in  them. 

"I  was  like  the  lone  mariner,  being  tossed  about  with 
out  sun  or  compass,  who  had  seen  on  a  broad  ocean  a 
beautiful  ship.  He  sought  the  ship,  but  it  had  passed  out 
of  his  sight  and  he  had  lost  it  forever  without  learning 
its  name  or  whence  it  had  gone. 

"We  took  a  few  excursions  up  and  down  the  Nile,  but 
I  soon  saw  that  I  had  lost  all  desire  for  travel. 

"Wherever  I  went  I  found  myself  watching  always  for 
that  unknown  face,  but  it  had  gone  from  out  my  world 
as  completely  as  had  the  ship  of  the  lone  mariner. 

"We  stopped  at  Rome,  at  Paris,  and  spent  some  weeks 
in  London,  but  I  never  again  saw  the  one  object  of  my 
search. 

"Almost  a  year  has  passed  since  then,  and  yet  scarce  a 
moment  but  what  I  feel  the  same  longing  desire  to  see 
again  the  only  woman  I  have  ever  loved." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Jack's  heart  beat  wild  with  joy. 

In  all  his  wayward  years, 

How  low  so' ere  the  course  he  led, 

A  little  child  was  ever  wont 

To  touch  the  one  sweet  chord 

Of  all  his  dark  life's  ivay, 

And  bring  him  back  to  better  self. 

Having  a  strong,  rugged  constitution,  unfitted  for  in 
valid  purposes,  I  was  soon  sitting  up  in  the  most  com 
fortable  chair  I  had  ever  sat  in — one  that  Edward  had 
sent  a  day  or  two  before. 

The  DeHertburns  had  been  most  kind.  They  had  all 
been  to  see  me,  to  express  their  gratitude. 

"We  can  never  repay  you,"  said  Mrs.  DeHertburn  one 
day. 

"My  dear  lady,  you  have  already  done  far  more  than 
my  simple  act  could  merit.  Besides,  you  forget  what  an 
hourly  joy  it  is  to  me  to  feel  that  I  was  permitted  to  save 
the  life  of  Helen,  who  has  crept  into  my  heart  as  no  child 
has  ever  done  before.  No,  Mrs.  DeHertburn,  I  am  the 
one  to  feel  grateful."  And  I  really  felt  so. 

My  experience  with  this  family  was  a  revelation  to  me. 
Somehow  I  had  always  thought  of  the  very  rich  as  a 
people  who  cared  only  for  outward  show,  people  who 
were  devoid  of  true  heart  sentiment.  But  here  was  a 
family  whose  place  (I  have  since  learned)  was  in  the 

nS 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  119 

inner  circle  of  the  city's  best  people,  with  hearts  brimming 
full  of  human  feeling. 

One  day  the  nurse  had  wheeled  me  into  the  large  room 
next  to  mine.  It  was  a  sort  of  parlor.  As  I  sat  reading 
I  heard  the  tiniest  knock  on  the  door  and  called  to  the 
nurse  to  open  it.  As  she  did  so,  in  ran  Helen  with  an 
"Oh,  Mister  Ruben,  I  cumbed  almost  by  myself.  No 
body  cumbed  with  me  but  Beatrice,"  who  just  then  came 
in  with  a  "Good-morning,  Ruben." 

"Yes,  Mister  Ruben,  I  bringed  Beatrice  with  me, 
'cause  she  is  awful  lonesome,  'cause  Tousin  Wallie  went 
away  off  on  the  big  water  in  a  big  ship,  for  papa,  that 
day  what  you  kept  me  from  being  an  angel,  and  he  won't 
cumbed  back  for  a  long,  long  time." 

"Now,  Helen,"  said  Beatrice,  with  a  faint  little  blush, 
"you  promised  mamma  you  would  not  talk  so  much  to 
day.  We  call  her  our  little  phonograph  at  home."  This 
to  me. 

"I  ain't  a  fonygraff.  I  on'y  say  what  I  fink  myself. 
Am  I  a  fonygraff,  Mister  Ruben?  Beatrice  is  a  fony 
graff,  'cause  she  says  lots  of  things  what  Tousin  Wallie 
says."  More  little  blushes. 

"Mister  Ruben,  ain't  you  well  now?  You  said  when 
you  got  well  you  would  tell  me  a  story  about  that  man 
what  was  a  nice  little  boy  when  he  was  little,  but  a  bad 
man  when  he  growed  up  to  be  a  man,  but  what  always 
loved  little  children,  and  one  day  he  was  in  a  theatre  and 
killed  himself  for  them,  because  there  was  a  fire  he  didn't 
want  them  to  know  about,  and  then  all  the  little  children 
put  flowers  on  his  grave  and  loved  him  ever  since.  You 
know,  Mister  Ruben,  what  I  mean." 

"If  he  does,  Helen,  he  is  a  very  bright  young  man  to 
know  from  that  mixture  of  yours.  Ruben,  does  she  al- 
wavs  run  on  like  this?" 


120  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

"Ah,  Miss  Beatrice,  if  you  knew  how  it  pleases  me  to 
hear  her  child-talk  you  would  not  say  a  word  to  prevent 
her  saying  it  as  she  wishes.  She  fills  my  heart  with  sun 
shine  every  time  she  comes." 

"Now,  Beatrice,  you  mustn't  talk  a  bit,  'cause  Mister 
Ruben  is  going  to  tell  all  about  that  good  little  boy  what 
was  a  bad  man,  but  loved  little  children." 

"Is  that  the  poem  you  wrote  called  'Some  Deed  of 
Worth  ?' "  asked  Beatrice.  "I  heard  brother  Edward 
speak  of  it." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "if  poem  it  may  be  called,  but  I  had  better 
tell  it  in  prose,  as  Helen  can  scarcely  understand  it  in  my 
verses." 

"I  can  understand  it,  Mister  Ruben.  Tousin  Wallie 
often  tells  things  to  Beatrice  in  poetry,  and  I  understand 
it  real  good." 

I  recited  it  for  them,  but  will  not  ask  you  to  listen  to  it 
here,  as  it  is  quite  too  long. 

The  story  was  a  true  one  of  a  young  Englishman,  the 
son  of  an  aristocratic  family,  who  had  high  expectations 
for  his  future.  The  mother  died  praying  that  he  might  do 
"some  deed  of  worth,"  but,  like  many  another,  he  took  the 
wrong  course,  and  we  know  too  well  that : 

"From  palace  to  the  wayside  lane 

Is  but  a  step, 

If  led  by  Bacchus'  luring  hand !" 

"Jack"  became  a  song  and  dance  actor.  The  company 
with  which  he  was  connected  was  giving  a  performance  at 
one  of  the  great  manufacturing  cities  of  England  to  a 
thousand  children.  While  "Jack"  was  on  the  stage,  doing 
his  act,  fire  broke  out  behind  the  scenes,  and  but  for  him 
there  would  have  been  a  panic.  The  curtain  was  dropped, 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  121 

and  he  renewed  his  efforts  to  amuse.  His  efforts  were  too 
great,  for: 

"A  something  broke,  right  here 
I  heard  it  snap," 

and  he  died  on  the  stage,  but  he  had  held  them  while 
those  behind  had  "fought  the  fire."  He  was  buried  at 
that  city,  and  to-day: 

"No  hero's  grave  more  honored 

Or  more  loved  than  Jack's ; 

Kept  white  with  flowers 

Strewn  there  by  loving  little  hands. 

The  first  blooms  of  Spring, 

The  last  of  Autumn's  bloom, 

Are  gathered  for  his  mound, 

The  Mecca  of  a  thousand  little  ones 

Who  hold  his  memory  sweet. 

They  love  him  for  his  love  for  them. 
For  all  this  love,  let  no  one  say 
His  life  a  failure  proved, 
But  in  that  life 
That  he  might  count 
Some  Deed  of  Worth." 

I  could  but  wonder  at  the  interest  with  which  this  little 
child  drank  in  the  story,  and  was  surprised  to  see  how 
well  she  had  understood  it. 

"Mister  Ruben,  ain't  he  a  angel  now?  He  didn't  have 
to  go  to  that  Bad  Place  'cause  he  was  bad  sometimes,  did 
he?  He  was  so  good  to  save  all  the  little  children. 


122  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

Wouldn't  they  all  feel  sorry  when  they  are  angels  if  they 
can't  find  Jack  in  heaven? 

"Little  children  love  people  what  saves  them.     I  love 

yon,  Mister  Ruben,,  oh,  lots  more  than  this  much " 

and  she  spread  her  little  arms  as  wide  as  she  could,  mak 
ing  my  heart  fairly  bound  with  joy. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"Ruben,  were  you  ever  in  love?"  asked  Edward. 

"Yes;  once"  said  I,  "but  I  lost." 

"Cheer  up;  you'll  win  her  yet." 

"I  hope  not!" 

"Why?"  asked  he. 

"Because  she  married  the  other  fellow." 

"Ruben,  I  once  asked  you  if  you  were  ever  in  love,  but 
you  did  not  answer  me.  Were  you?" 

"Yes,  Edward,  once;  but  I  lost." 

"Cheer  up,  my  boy,  you'll  win  her  yet." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  I. 

"Why?" 

"Because  she  married  the  other  fellow." 

"Come,  now,  Ruben,  you  must  tell  me  all  about  it,  if 
it  is  not  too  tender  a  subject.  One's  own  misfortunes 
seem  easier  to  bear  if  they  can  hear  those  of  others." 

He  had  been  so  kind  to  me  that  I  could  but  begin  my 
story,  which  I  did  at  once : 

"Alice  was  the  daughter  of  the  big  Squire  of  the  Coun 
ty.  Although  she  lived  many  miles  from  Highmont,  she 
used  often  to  visit  our  village,  where  she  had  a  married 
sister.  I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time  I  saw  her.  She 
may  not  have  been  beautiful,  but  my  young  fancy  painted 
her  as  such.  Her  sister  lived  near  the  village  school-house. 
While  on  these  various  visits  I  cared  little  for  the  games 
at  'recess'  or  the  noon  hour,  preferring  to  'hang  around' 

123 


124 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


and  watch  for  Alice.  She  smiled  on  me  one  day !  The 
world  seemed  to  bloom  anew^  and  after  that  we  were 
friends.  We  grew  older,  yet  both  were  very  young  when 
she  went  away  to  school.  At  this  school  was  my  sister. 
They  were  good  friends,  Alice  and  Anna.  How  I  did 
prize  the  letters  that  Sister  Anna  wrote  me  from  there! 
How  the  lines  in  which  Alice  played  the  principle  part 
did  make  my  little  heart  beat — beat  as  nothing  could  make 
it  beat  now,  for  older  hearts  are  harder,  truer  mayhap,  but 
harder. 

"Years  passed.  When  I  was  grown  I  met  Alice  and 
her  husband.  Not  the  dainty,  black-eyed,  mischievous 
Alice;  not  Alice,  the  coquette,  but  just  good,  zealous, 
homely  Alice.  I  met  her  on  the  train  that  brought  me  to 
New  York.  I  kissed  her — couldn't  help  it,  for  old  time 
sake — my  rival  was  there,  but  he  only  smiled. 

"Alice  talked  of  the  old  days,  and  I  listened.  She 
wasn't  pretty  any  more,  and  I  didn't  love  her  any  more, 
but  do  you  know  I  was,  oh,  so  glad,  to  see  her  and  hear  her 
talk?  I  forgot  she  wasn't  pretty;  I  forgot  she  wasn't 
Alice  of  the  old  days,  when  to  crush  a  heart  was  a  joy  to 
her.  I  just  listened  and  was  glad  to  hear  her  voice.  It 
brought  back  happy  memories  of  days,  when  life  was  not 
the  hard,  real  life,  but  the  flower  life  of  childhood. 

"When  I  looked  at  Alice  I  thought  of  the  ring  she  sent 
back,  with  'I  was  only  in  fun !'  How  happy  it  made  me 
feel  to  remember  that  'only  in  fun !'  I  thought  of  what 
might  have  been  had  she  not  been  'only  in  fun,'  and  kept 
the  ring.  Well,  I  looked  at  Charlie,  and  said  a  silent  say 
in  my  heart :  Old  boy,  I'm  glad  she's  yours.' ': 

Edward  seemed  greatly  interested  in  my  one  love  story 
and  was  quite  amused  when  I  told  him  that  the  serious 
part  of  it  all  occurred  between  the  tenth  and  fifteenth  year 
of  my  life.  The  ring  having  been  returned  at  fourteen. 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  12$ 

"Your  love,"  said  Edward,  "was  that  of  childhood,  not 
the  real  love  of  maturity." 

"Ah,"  said  I,  "mine  was  real.  When  Alice  sent  back 
my  'filled'  ring  which  I  had  worked  so  hard  to  pay  for  (it 
cost  two  dollars  at  the  village  store),  I  felt  there  was 
nothing  left  for  me  to  live  for.  It  was  a  sad  blow  to  my 
little  heart,  but  I  must  confess  that  the  point  where  the 
blow  struck  is  now  entirely  healed." 

Edward  was  ever  sad  of  late.  He  always  seemed  to  be 
thinking  of  that  "face."  I  would  defend  my  young  love 
and  try  thus  to  draw  his  mind  from  his  brooding,  hoping 
to  get  him  to  forget,  as  I  had  forgotten,  so  I  said : 

"You  have  only  the  face  to  remember.  I  had  face, 
friendship  and,  as  I  thought,  love,  and  lost  all.  You  have 
only  the  face ;  had  you  known  the  character,  it  might  have 
been  one  entirely  uncongenial  to  you — unsuited  to  your 
nature." 

"A  face  like  hers,"  returned  Edwrard,  "was  but  the  in 
dex  of  a  character  so  pure  and  gentle  that  I  could  always 
love.  Though  she  returned  a  thousand  rings,  my  heart 
could  not  but  go  out  to  her.  I  have  had  many  fancies 
which  I  thought  were  loves,  but  never  until  I  saw  that 
face  in  the  tomb  did  my  heart  tell  me  what  real  love 
meant." 

I  fain  would  have  continued  but  he  seemed  more  sad 
as  he  talked  of  the  "face,"  and  I  thought  to  turn  his  mind 
by  asking  him  how  long  the  doctors  intended  to  keep  me 
shut  up,  away  from  my  outdoor  life. 

"Ruben,"  said  he,  "Dr.  Whipple  says  you  are  doing  so 
well  that  in  a  week's  time  I  may  take  you  for  a  drive  in 
Central  Park,  which  you  say  you  have  once  seen." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "once — from  the  outside."  I  smiled  as 
I  recalled  that  "once." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"Stopping  in  front  of  a  tall,  rough-looking  stone,  Ed 
ward  said: 

"  'That  is  Cleopatra's  Needle!' 

"  'Where's  her  thread?'  I  asked,  thinking  to  jest  away 
that  look  of  sadness  from  his  face." 

One  week  from  the  day  that  Edward  had  promised  to 
take  me  driving  through  Central  Park  he,  with  Beatrice 
and  Helen,  were  at  the  hospital. 

Dr.  Whipple  said  it  was  quite  safe  for  me  to  be  out  for 
two  or  three  hours. 

Helen  was  very  happy  that  morning.  "Mamma  said  I 
would  be  in  the  way,  but  I  told  her  you  said  I  was  never 
in  the  way.  Am  I  ever  in  the  way,  Mister  Ruben?'' 

"No,  Helen,  and  you  never  will  be.  I  will  always  be 
happiest  when  you  are  near  me." 

"Beatrice,  you  must  tell  mamma  what  Mister  Ruben 
said  and  then  she  will  always  let  me  come. 

"Mister  Ruben,  I  call  this  carriage  my  Victory.  Mamma 
says  I  have  too  many,  but  I  don't — only  this  one. 

"Mister  Ruben,  are  you  glad  to  get  out  doors?  I 
would  be  if  I  staid  in  a  long,  long  time  like  you  did." 

Not  far  from  the  "Rizervoy"  Helen  said :  "That's  our 
house,  Mister  Ruben.  Oh,  there's  mamma  at  the  win 
dow,"  as  she  waved  her  little  gloved  hand.  "And  see, 
Mister  Ruben,  here's  where  you  saved  me.  Are  you 
sorry  I  run'd  across  the  street?" 

126 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  127 

If  ever  a  man  was  really  happy  in  thinking  of  an  acci 
dent  I  was  that  man.  I  felt  if  it  ever  came  in  my  way  to 
do  a  good  turn  to  the  grocer,  whose  horse  had  caused  it, 
I  would  do  it  with  a  whole  heart. 

Edward,  during  the  drive  to  the  park,  kept  pointing 
out  the  various  places  of  interest,  but  none  of  them  were 
new  to  me. 

Beatrice  seemed  unusually  happy  that  morning.  I  had 
never  seen  her  in  such  fine  spirits. 

I  attributed  it  to  the  fresh  bracing  air  and  the  beautiful 
park  through  which  we  wrere  driving,  but  that  could  not 
be  the  reason,  for  she  said  they  drove  through  it  nearly 
every  day. 

I  had  never  noticed  her  so  closely  before.  Of  course  I 
could  not  help  noting  that  she  was  very  pretty  the  first 
time  I  had  seen  her,  but  now  that  I  could  study  her  face 
I  was  surprised  at  its  great  beauty. 

She  had  a  mass  of  light  brown  hair,  large,  lustrous  eyes 
and  the  prettiest  pink  and  white  complexion  I  had  ever 
seen.  Her  face  was  a  type  one  seldom  meets  with,  but 
once  seen  the  picture  of  it  remains  fixed  in  the  mind.  Her 
manner  was  as  sweet  as  her  face  was  pretty.  There  was 
no  affectation.  She  was  open  and  frank  in  her  speech, 
and  withal  I  found  myself  quite  envying  "Wallie"  before 
we  returned  to  the  hospital. 

"Oh,  Mister  Ruben,  I  clear  forgot  to  tell  you  the  big 
news.  Tousin  Wallie's  coming  home  to-morrow  on  the 
big  ship,  and  Beatrice  is,  oh,  so  happy !"  No  white  in  the 
face  now ;  pink  predominates. 

"Why,  Helen,"  said  I,  "you  told  me  that  'Wallie'  would 
not  come  back  for  a  long,  long  time !" 

"Well,  I  know,  but  that  is  what  Sister  Beatrice  said. 
She  said  it  would  be  an  age!" 

"Helen,  Helen,  you  know  what  I  told  you  before  we 


128  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

started  ?"  said  Beatrice,  with  reproving  look. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know ;  you  told  me  I  should  not  say  'Wallie' 
once — and  that  you  would  give  me  all  the  bonbons  I  could 
eat  if  I  didn't.  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry"  (patting  Beatrice  on 
the  cheek),  "dear,  sweet,  lovely  sister  Beatrice  that  I  said 
that — because — because  I  love  bonbons  so  much." 

"Yes,"  said  Edward,  "Tousin  Wallie  returns  to-mor 
row.  Our  firm  had  a  very  important  transaction  in  Lon 
don  that  really  required  one  of  the  firm  to  look  after,  but 
neither  father  nor  I  could  possibly  leave  at  the  time,  and 
we  were  compelled  to  trust  it  to  one  of  our  men,  and  we 
chose  Wallace." 

"No,"  broke  in  Helen,  "he's  Tousin  Wallie,  Tousin 
Wallie — he  ain't  'Wallace'  never." 

"Well,"  resumed  Edward  good  naturedly,  "Tousin 
Wallie  then.  It  was  a  great  risk  on  our  part  as  he  is 
quite  young — just  turned  of  age — but  he  is  remarkably 
bright  for  one  so  young.  He  finished  the  work  in  an  in 
credibly  short  time,  and  to  our  entire  satisfaction.  The 
London  firm  with  which  the  business  was  is  an  old  house 
and  considered  very  shrewd  in  the  market,  but  'Wallie' 
was  quite  able  to  protect  our  interests.  We  are  greatly 
pleased  with  him." 

I  thought  that  Beatrice  was  going  to  throw  her  arms 
around  her  brother's  neck  right  then  and  there,  as  she 
seemed  so  happy. 

At  one  place  in  the  park  Edward  had  the  driver  stop. 

I  glanced  about  to  see  what  there  was  to  look  at,  but 
saw  nothing  to  be  compared  with  other  parts  where  we 
had  not  stopped.  In  fact,  all  that  I  saw  was  a  big,  tall, 
rough  looking  stone  set  on  end,  but  Edward  sat  there  in 
the  carriage  and  looked  a  long  \vhile  at  that  stone.  I 
could  see  that  his  face  was  more  sad  than  I  had  ever  seen 
it  before.  Even  more  sad  than  when  he  told  me  about 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  129 

the  lost  '"face"  in  Egypt. 

"Ruben,"  said  he  finally,  "do  you  know  what  that  stone 
is?" 

"No,"  said  I,  "why  should  I  ?  I  have  never  even  seen 
the  park  before  except  from  the  outside."  But  the  way 
he  asked  me,  and  the  way  he  looked,  I  felt  sure  he  was 
going  to  tell  me  that  it  was  a  "gravestone"  erected  to'  the 
memory  of  some  dear  friend,  and  yet  I  could  not  think 
it  possible  that  any  one  should  be  buried  in  a  public  park. 

"That,"  said  he,  "is  Cleopatra's  Needle." 

"Where's  her  thread?"  I  asked  thinking  to  jest  away 
that  look  of  sadness  from  his  face. 

He  did  not  smile,  but  sat  there  silent. 

"Brother  Edward,  why  do  you  always  stop  at  this  stone 
and  look  at  it  so  long,  and  then  all  the  way  home  never 
say  a  word?"  and  Helen  cuddled  her  little  head  on  her 
brother's  shoulder  and  looked  up  into  his  face,  so  sweet 
like,  that  I  could  scarcely  believe  he  could  resist  her  af 
fection,  but  he  never  noticed  her  at  all. 

The  driver,  without  being  told,  turned  and  drove  out 
of  the  park. 

***J|s>|«*#>l« 

I  wrote  a  long  letter  to  sister  Anna  that  afternoon.  I 
told  her  of  the  drive  through  the  beautiful  park.  "It  is 
larger,"  I  wrote,  "than  our  whole  farm  at  home,  and  full 
of  flowers  and  trees ;  with  wide  driveways,  and  winding 
walks  and  bridges  that  we  drove  under;  with  little  lakes 
on  which  boats  floated  and  geese  with  the  longest  necks  I 
had  ever  seen  swam  about.  There  were  more  animals  than 
we  ever  saw  at  a  circus,  and  the  queerest  animals !  Some 
of  them  I  had  never  heard  of.  One  big  fellow  in  a  tank  of 
water,  when  he  ate  hay,  opened  the  whole  front  part  of  his 
head  and  seemed  to  enjoy  it.  I  would  tell  you  his  name 
only  that  it  would  make  my  letter  too  long.  I  never  could 


130 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


write  of  all  I've  seen  to-day.  I  could  not  have  believed 
there  was  so  much  beauty  in  the  world,  and  yet,  sister,  do 
you  know,  the  people  who  live  here  think  very  little  about 
it!  Really  they  look  at  all  these  surpassing  scenes  with 
as  little  interest  as  we  would  look  at  the  woods  lot  back  of 
the  barn.  I  guess  it  is  because  they  have  had  it  to  look  at 
from  childhood.  Somebody  has  said:  'Beautiful  is  not 
beautiful  if  you  have  only  beauty  to  look  at,'  but  I  know 
that  what  I  have  seen  to-day  will  never  lose  its  charm 
for  me. 

"You  see,  Anna,  I  did  a  favor  for  a  family  some  time 
ago,  and  you  would  be  surprised  to  know  how  much  they 
all  appreciated  it.  There  is  in  this  family  the  father  and 
mother,  one  son,  a  young  man  pi  twenty-three,  and  two 
daughters,  one  a  young  lady  and  the  other  the  dearest, 
sweetest  child  you  ever  saw,  and  the  brightest  talker  you 
ever  heard,  for  one  of  her  age.  What  is  so  nice  about  her 
is  that  she  likes  to  talk,  and  I  never  tire  listening  to  her. 
She  says  she  loves  me  'oh,  so  much.'  You  know,  sister, 
the  litle  girls  always  did  like  me — up  to  a  certain  age. 
Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  the  reason  the  child  says  she  loves 
me.  One  day  I  was  going  up  the  street  that  Bill  lives  on 
— you  know  it  is  called  Fifth  Avenue — when  there  was  a 
grocer's  wagon  going  along  and  I  just  pushed  Helen 
(Helen's  her  name,  Helen  DeHertburn)  to  one  side  so 
that  the  wheel  of  the  wagon  would  not  touch  her  as  it 
passed,  and  the  family  seemed  to  think  I  had  done  some 
thing  great.  Why  they  would  often  send  me  fruit  down 
to  the  big  house  where  I  have  been  stopping  temporarily, 
I  having  changed  my  boarding  place  for  a  while,  there 
were  so  many  people  at  the  other  house.  What  I  liked 
even  better  than  the  fruit  were  the  flowers  that  Helen 
'bringed'  me  every  day.  Not  having  done  enough,  the 
three  took  me  in  their  carriage  up  Fifth  Avenue  and 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  131 

through  the  park  that  I've  been  telling  you  about.  I  have 
to  smile  to  hear  Helen  tease  her  sister  Beatrice  about  a 
young  man  whom  she  calls  'Tousin  W'allie.'  I  often 
think,  at  such  times,  of  our  Bill,  whom  I've  never  yet  seen 
or  heard  of.  He  must  be  different  from  Beatrice's  Tousin 
Wallie,  for  he  is  in  the  employ  of  her  father,  while  our 
Bill  simply  works  for  somebody. 

-  "Must  stop,  with  best  wishes  to  the  whole  community, 
not  forgetting  the  'lone  widows.'  Tell  'em  I  am  not  lost 
yet.  I  am  your  loving  brother,  A.  RUBE;N/'> 

"P.  S. — I  nearly  forgot  to  say  that  when  I  pushed 
Helen  away  from  the  wagon  that  one  of  my  legs  somehow 
got  broken  a  little.  Don't  worry  or  tell  anyone  about  it,  as 
it  was  only  a  trifle.  It  was  nothing  but  those  two  bones 
below  the  knee,  but  they  soon  got  well.  You  can't  im 
agine  what  a  fine  time  I  have  been  having  since  it  oc 
curred — never  have  had  so  good  a  time  in  all  my  life ! 

"When  you  see  Joe  Yong  tell  him  that  I  wish  he  was  in 
New  York.  I  could  introduce  him  to  a  real  live  pro 
fessor.  I  am  sure  Joe  would  like  him.  He  is  not  much 
of  a  talker,  but  I  found  him  quite  lively  the  one  time  I 
met  him.  It  was  at  a  place  they  call  a  "club."  People 
who  saw  us  meet  remarked  that  we  were  like  two  old 
friends,  almost  like  brothers — some  brothers." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

//  it  were  not  out  of  place  to  moralize  at  this  point,  I 
would  say  that  tJic  teacher  zvho  has  to  use  a  switch 
is  not  a  fit  person  to  teach.  If  I  could  say  it  here,  it 
would  compensate  me  for  the  dailies  I  used  to  get. 

When  Helen  and  Beatrice  came  the  next  afternoon, 
Helen  was  in  great  glee,  and  Beatrice  was  all  smiles,  for, 
as  Helen  said:  "Tousin  Wallie  has  come  back  and  he 
bringed  me  the  most  pretty  things  you  ever  saw,  and  to 
morrow  I  am  going  to  make  him  come  to  see  you." 

"Yes ;  but,  Helen,"  said  I,  "he  may  not  want  to  come. 
I  am  of  no  interest  to  him ;  he  does  not  know  me." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ruben,  you  don't  know  Tousin  Wallie.  He 
alays  does  just  what  I  ask  him.  He  knows  if  he  don't  I 
will  say  things,  and  he  says  I  know  too  many  things  to 
say,  so  he  does  anything  I  ask.  I  wTould  not  tell  him  who 
you  are,  or  anything.  I  on'y  said  you  were  my  little  beau. 
Won't  he  be  fooled  when  he  sees  how  big  you  are?  Oh, 
it  will  be  such  fun !  When  you  hear  us  coming  you  must 
jump  behind  the  bed,  then  when  we  come  in  I  will  say 
'Boo!'  and  you  must  jump  up  quick,  and  won't  he  be 
scared?"  And  the  little  darling  was  so  delighted  with 
the  prospect  that  it  did  me  a  world  of  good  to  see  her,  as 
she  planned  the  morrow's  meeting.  "Air.  Ruben,  see  this 
pretty  pin  Tousin  Wallie  bringed  me!"  and  then,  in  a 
whisper,  watching  Beatrice  out  of  the  corners  of  her 
eyes,  "and,  oh,  Mr.  Ruben,  he  bringed  Beatrice  the  beau- 

132 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  133 

tifulcst  ring  you  ever,  ever  saw,  but  don't  tell  anybody 
at  all." 

"Helen,  what  are  you  saying  to  Ruben?  You  know 
you  promised !" 

"Yes,  Sister  Beatrice,  but  I  on'y  just  whispered — 
that  don't  count,  does  it,  Mr.  Ruben?  No,  Sister 
Beatrice,  that  don't  count.  We  must  go  now.  We 
on'y  had  time  to  run  in  a  minute,  and  tell  you.  Now,  re 
member,  Mister  Ruben,  when  I  say  'Boo!''  And  I 
watched  for  them  to  get  into  the  carriage,  and  as  they 
drove  away  Helen  was  waving  her  little  hand  up  to  my 
window. 

Such  had  been  my  fate  all  my  life.  The  little  girls  had 
always  seemed  to  love  me,  but  love  me  only  as  they  would 
a  good,  gentle  old  family  horse,  that  would  allow  them  to 
caress  and  fondle  it.  Would  this  be  my  fate  always? 
Would  there  never  come  a  time  when  they  would  not 
outgrow  their  childish  affection  for  me?  I  feared  not, 
and  in  my  happiness  I  was  really  sad. 

"To-morrow"  often  seems  ages  away.  I  must  have 
spent  hours  at  the  window,  watching,  watching. 

Why  should  I  take  so  much  interest  in  the  coming  of  a 
stranger  ?  What  was  he  to  me,  or  I  to  him,  that  I  should 
look  forward  to  his  coming  as  though  he  were  a  friend, 
or  my  own  Bill?  I  had  begun  to  lose  all  interest  in  Bill! 
Here  I  had  been  weeks  in  New  York,  and  with  my  name 
in  the  paper  a  number  of  times — (he  certainly  must 
have  seen  it  and  known  I  was  in  the  city) — and  he  had 
not  sought  me  out.  He  is  ashamed  of  his  old  friend 
Rube.  Good  enough  at  home,  but  not  good  enough  for 
Fifth  Avenue ! 

And  thus  I  was  brooding  myself  into  a  most  unhappy 
state  of  mind  when  I  saw  a  carriage  turning  in,  as  though 
to  stop  in  front  of  the  hospital. 


134 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


It  is  Helen  and  Beatrice,  and  with  them  a  fine-looking 
gentleman.  Can  that  be  Wallie?  How  odd  the  name 
sounds  when  applied  to  that  tall,  elegant-looking  young 
man  with  them !  They  are  out  of  the  carriage,  coming 
up  in  the  elevator.  I  mentally  count  the  stories.  Now 
they  are  in  the  hallway,  but  I  am  safe  behind  the  bed,  so 
arranged  as  to  quickly  jump  out.  They  are  in  the  room. 
I  can  hear,  but  cannot  see  them.  I  hear  a  little  laugh,  a 
little  voice  cries  out  "Boo!"  I  jump  out. 

"Bill!" 

"Rube !"  is  all  we  can  say,  as  we  stand  watching  each 
other. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mister  Ruben  ?  what's  the  matter, 
Tousin  Wallie?  Who  told  you  each  other's  names? 
Beatrice,  you  told  them — and  spoiled  my  fun."  and  she 
was  nearly  crying  from  disappointment !  But  we  were 
soon  a  happy,  merry  party  when  explanations  had  been 
made. 

"Why,  Helen,"  said  I,  "your  Tousin  Wallie  is  my  Bill." 

"Yes,"  said  Bill ;  "and,  Helen,  your  Ruben  is  my  Rube, 
too." 

"W'here  did  you  know  \Vallie,  Mister  Ruben?  You 
never  saw  him,  did  you?  You  never  told  me  he  was 
yours!  Oh,  Beatrice,  ain't  it  jolly?"  and  she  jumped  up 
and  down  for  joy.  Then  Bill  and  I  told  how  we  had 
been  born  and  reared  in  the  same  little  town  away  off 
among  the  mountains. 

"Helen,"  said  I,  "there  are  only  a  few  houses  there,  and 
all  of  them  so  small  that  you  would  wonder  that  people 
could  live  in  them ;  but  we  never  knew  about  the  great 
houses  in  the  city,  and  were  very  happy  in  our  homes. 
We  went  to  a  little  school ;  only  one  room.  The  big  boys 
and  the  little  boys,  the  big  girls  and  the  little  girls,  all  in 
that  one  little  school-house !  It  kept  the  teacher  so  busy 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  135 

whipping  that  he  never  had  time  to  teach.'' 

"You  never  got  whipped,  did  you,  Mister  Ruben?" 
asked  Helen,  but  Bill  was  so  overcome  with  the  question 
that  I  could  not  reply,  giving  him  a  chance  to  exclaim 
"Did  he  ?"  with  much  emphasis  on  the  "did." 

"Rube,"  asked  Bill,  "do  you  remember  how  Hoard 
whipped  you  every  day  all  winter  just  to  make  you  cry, 
and  didn't  bring  the  tears  until  one  day  in  the  spring?" 

It  was  my  turn  to  exclaim,  "Do  I  ?" 

It  was  a  revelation  to  Helen  and  Beatrice  to  hear  of 
children  being  beaten  with  sticks  and  struck  upon  their 
little  hands  with  ferrules  by  big,  grown  men,  who  had 
not  education  enough  to  occupy  their  time  at  teaching!  I 
told  them,  however,  that  the  teachers  of  the  present  day 
are  becoming  more  civilized  and  less  barbarous. 

"I  would  fight  'em !"  exclaimed  Helen,  and  this  was 
the  first  time  I  had  seen  her  show  any  temper.  I  could 
not  but  think  that  what  was  once  looked  upon  as  absolute 
ly  necessary  in  the  training  of  children  in  making  them 
do  what  was  the  right,  only  resulted  in  bringing  out  and 
nurturing  the  evil  in  them.  If  it  were  not  out  of  place  to 
moralize  at  this  point,  I  would  say  that  the  teacher  who 
has  to  use  a  switch  is  not  a  fit  person  to  teach.  If  I  could 
say  it  here,  it  would  in  a  small  measure  compensate  me 
for  the  "dailies"  I  used  to  get. 

"On'y  the  big  men  were  bad  and  whipped  little  chil 
dren  ;  the  nice  lady  teachers  didn't  whip,  did  they,  Mister 
Ruben?" 

"Ask  Bill !"  said  I,  to  even  matters  up  with  him. 

"Do  they,  Tousin  Wallie?" 

"Oh,  yes ;  they  used  to  whip  Ruben  often !"  and  still 
Bill  was  ahead. 

"I  am  so  sorry,  Mister  Ruben !"    That  evened  them  up. 

The  time  passed  so  quickly  that  the  hour  for  my  friends 


136  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

to  go  had  come  long-  before  I  had  begun  to  realize  my 
good  fortune  in  the  strange  manner  in  which  Bill  and  I 
had  found  each  other.  He  promised  to  come  again  on 
the  morrow,  and  they  left  me  a  very  lonely  young  man. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

The  bad  boy  of  a  village  became  the  great  man  of  a  city. 

That  was  a  happy  week  for  me.  Bill  came  nearly  every 
day  to  visit  me.  He  had  not  been  at  the  old  home  for 
two  years ;  and  while  his  mother  had  written  him  often, 
there  were  many  things  she  had  not  told  him,  and  I  had 
to  tell  something  about  nearly  everybody  for  miles  around 
Highmont.  It  made  little  difference  what  I  told.  Bill 
said  the  bare  mention  of  a  name  gave  him  pleasure.  He 
did  not  care,  he  said,  if  Jake  Mitchell  had  painted  his  barn 
blue  or  green,  just  so  he  heard  Jake's  name,  and  was  glad, 
too,  that  I  had  mentioned  the  barn,  for  it  brought  up 
happy  memories  of  the  day  he  had  helped  raise  it. 

"You  helped!  What  could  you  do?  You  were  only  a 
child  then." 

"Oh,  yes.     I  helped  Elenora  wait  on  the  table  at  noon  !" 

It  all  came  back  to  me  then.  I  had  heard  of  his  help 
ing  on  that  memorable  occasion,  and  how  he  had  put  salt 
in  all  the  old  ladies'  tea,  and  the  trouble  he  caused.  Bill 
may  be  all  right  now,  but  at  barn  raisings  he  had  to  be 
watched. 

"And  what  has  become  of  bad  John  Woodman?"  asked 
Bill.  John  had  been  the  worst  boy  who  had  ever  lived  at 
Highmont.  His  was  the  name  that  made  the  small  boy 
tremble.  "I'll  tell  John  Woodman  on  yer,  if  yer  don't 
gimme  the  core  of  yer  apple!"  always  produced  the  core 
and  as  much  of  the  apple  as  was  left  at  the  time  the  threat 


138  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

was  made.    And  now  Bill,  who  I  knew  had  lost  many  a 
"core,"  wanted  to  know  what  had  become  of  this  bad  boy. 

"What !"  said  I  in  surprise,  "haven't  you  heard  how  he 
went  to  Chicago,  became  one  of  that  city's  great  builders, 
was  elected  Alderman  and  is  looked  upon  as  one  of  the 
great  men  of  that  city  ?  And  haven't  you  heard  how  that 
when  Libby  prison  was  to  be  taken  down  and  removed 
from  Richmond  to  Chicago,  it  was  John  who  was  chosen 
to  do  the  important  work  and  how  well  he  did  it?  Yes, 
Bill,  the  bad  boy  of  a  village  became  the  great  man  of  a 
city." 

"Oh,  I  could  ask  you  a  thousand  questions  more,"  said 
Bill ;  "to  hear  of  that  dear  old  town  fairly  makes  my 
heart  overflow  with  sweet  memories.  Oh,  yes,  and  what 
has  become  of  your  old  Aunt  Racheal,  at  whose  house  we 
used  to  go  to  visit  at  sugar-making  time  ?  You  know  she 
lived  away  down  in  the  valley,  ten  miles  away  from 
town." 

"Poor  Aunt  Racheal,"  said  I,  "she  died  last  summer." 

"And  what  became  of  the  old  barren  farm  she  lived 
on?  She  had  no  children  to  leave  it  to." 

"She  left  it,"  said  I,  "to  sister  Anna  and  me,  but  what 
ever  we  can  do  with  it  I  do  not  know.  So  far,  nobody 
will  take  it  and  pay  the  taxes  for  its  use,  but,  Bill,  didn't 
we  have  fun  on  those  trips  ?" 

"One  of  the  sweetest  memories  of  my  life  was  my  vis 
iting  at  her  home.  You  know  she  lived  in  an  old  log 
hewn  double  cabin.  Everything  about  it,  even  to  this 
day,  seems  hallowed — the  gourd  we  drank  from  at  the 
well,  with  its  long  'sweep,'  the  swinging  crane  in  the  old 
wide  fireplace — the  corn  pone  she  made  and  baked  in  .the 
Dutch  oven,  set  before  the  fire,  with  ashes  and  coals 
heaped  around  and  over  it — the  maple  'taffy'  she  fed  us  on 
— the  great  old-fashioned  copper  cents  she  gave  me — 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  139 

cents  whose  value  has  never  been  equaled  by  all  the  dollars 
I've  had  since — the  stories  she  told  us  no  writer  has  ever 
€xcelled !  In  a  word,  Aunt  Racheal  was  my  childhood 
goddess.  Why  she  was  so  much  to  me  I  have  never  known. 
She  was  very  old  and  never  a  beauty ;  I  suppose  she  was 
quite  ugly  in  reality,  but  to  me  no  queen  of  beauty  ever 
held  the  place  in  my  affections  that  Aunt  Racheal  held.  I 
remember  going  down  with  father  and  mother  in  a  sleigh 
one  bitter  cold  day,  and  how  they  sat  me  on  a  hot  paper- 
wrapped  brick  to  keep  me  warm.  I  did  not  think  of  the 
cold,  for  I  was  'gohr  ter  Aunt  Rachel's.'  Bill,  I  often 
wonder  if  the  children  of  the  great  city  have  their  Aunt 
Radicals.  I  know,  if  they  have,  that  none  of  them  could 
ever  compare  with  mine. 

"She  became  very  feeble  toward  the  last.  Father 
brought  her  to  our  home  and  gave  her  of  the  best  we  had, 
making  her  later  days  as  happy  as  possible." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

A  wrong  cannot  be  changed  into  a  right  by  words,  be 
they  never  so  cunningly  arranged. 

"And  now,  Bill,  you  have  much  to  explain  to  me  as  to 
how  you  have  succeeded  so  well  in  New  York  in  the  few 
years  you  have  been  away  from  the  village.  How  did  you 
gain  the  friendship  of  this  great  family  with  whom  you 
seem  to  be  on  such  intimate  relations  ?  I  have  not  heard 
of  your  saving  the  life  of  any  of  its  members?" 

"Well,"  he  began,  "you  may  remember  of  my  once  tell 
ing  you  of  a  distant  relative  of  my  mother's  who  had  made 
a  vast  fortune  in  the  West  and  had  removed  to  New 
York.  Well,  Mr.  DeHertbern  is  that  relative.  We  had 
lost  track  of  him  for  years.  When  I  came  here  a  boy  of 
sixteen,  full  of  enterprise,  I  thought  that  all  I  need  do  was 
to  go  into  an  office,  ask  for  a  position  and  be  shown  to  a 
cushioned  seat  and  given  a  gold  pen  to  write  with.  The 
first  day  here  caused  me  to  drop  both  cushion  and  pen. 
The  second  day  I  had  begun  to  grow  a  bit  discouraged. 
No  one  wanted  any  help.  It  was  either  'the  dull  season' 
or  'we  want  a  boy  with  experience'  or  a  dozen  other  'ors.' 
My  country  notions  of  the  easy  paths  of  the  city  were 
fast  clogging  up  those  paths,  and  as  one  after  another 
dropped,  I  found  all  the  paths  entirely  blocked.  I  had 
reached  that  point  where  I  would  have  taken  anything 
offered,  yet  I  still  sought  for  a  place  among  the  offices 
down  town.  By  chance  I  saw  on  a  great  office  the  name 

140 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  141 

'DeHertbern,'  and,  like  the  country  boy  I  was,  I  thought 
of  that  distant  relative,  and  sent  in  my  name.  By  the  bar 
est  chance  it  reached  Mr.  DeHertbern  himself.  He  sent 
for  me  to  come  to  his  private  office. 

"  'Well,  my  young  man,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?' 

"  'I  am  hunting  for  a  position.' 

"  'What  can  you  do?' 

"I  had  not  thought  of  that,  never  having  reached  so 
far  up  toward  a  position  before ;  but  I  answered,  'I  came 
here  from  the  country.  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  a 
single  thing  I  can  do,  but  I  am  strong  and — and  will  try 
to  do  what  I  am  given  to  do. 

" 'From  the  country !  Van  Alden!  Odd  name  !'  He 
sat  meditating  aloud,  seeming  entirely  to  forget  that  I  was 
there.  'I  never  knew  but  one  of  that  name  before.  A 
dear  cousin  of  my  mother's — she  married  a  Van  Alden — 
I  have  not  heard  of  her  for  years — dear  .Cousin  Mary!' 

"  'Why,  my  mother's  name  is  Mary.' 
'  'What  was  her  maiden  name?' 

"  'Mary  Wallace !' 

"  'What,  Mary  Wallace,  of  ,  Kentucky  ?'  now  all 

attention. 

"  'Yes,  and  daughter  of  Thomas  Wallace.  She  mar 
ried  my  father,  William  Van  Alden,  after  whom  I  was 
named.' 

'  'My  boy,  I  have  a  place  for  you.  If  you  are  a  son  of 
Mary  Wallace  Van  Alden,  you  come  from  one  of  the  best 
families  of  Kentucky,  and  I  will  try  to  help  you  make 
your  way  in  New  York.  Your  grandfather  once  did  me  a 
favor  when  I  was  a  poor  boy,  and  I  then  said  I  would 
some  day  return  it.  It  has  been  a  long  time  unpaid — but 
I  will  repay  it !  What  did  you  say  your  first  name  is  ?' 

"  'William  Wallace.' 

"  'Well,  Wallace,  I  am  going  to  make  you  work.     You 


I42  -       MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

will  think  cutting  cord  wood,  or  thinning  corn  on  a  hot 
day  very  easy  work,  but  it  will  do  you  good,  and  if  you 
can  stand  it  you  will  thank  me  for  making  it  hard  at  the 
start.  If  I  find  you  capable  and  quick,  and  you  should  be 
both  with  Wallace  blood  in  your  veins,  I  will  advance  you 
from  time  to  time,  but  I  will  not  advance  you  from  one 
position  to  another  until  I  am  more  than  convinced  that 
you  know  the  first  one  well.  I  will  take  pride  in  mak 
ing  you  a  man  worthy  the  name  your  mother  bore.  I 
shall  call  you  Wallace.  I  like  that  better  than  William, 
besides  the  boys  can't  nickname  you  Bill.'  I  wanted  to 
smile  as  I  thought  of  'Bill'  as  the  only  name  I  could  ever 
remember  of  having  to  answer  to. 

'  'My  son,  Edward,'  continued  Mr.  DeHertbern,  'is 
now  away  at  college.  I  shall  not  mention  your  even  dis 
tant  relationship  to  my  family  until  you  have  proven  your 
self  worthy,  therefore  this  shall  be  an  incentive  to  you  to 
do  well.' 

"I  cared  very  little  wether  he  ever  mentioned  it,  so  far 
as  his  son  was  concerned,  but  when  his  pretty  little  daugh 
ter  used  to  come  down  to  the  office,  oh,  how  I  did  wish 
I  had  the  right  to  call  her  'Cousin  Beatrice,'  and  as  year 
after  year  she  grew  more  and  more  beautiful  I  worked 
harder  and  even  harder  to  deserve  that  right.  About  a 
year  ago  Helen  began  coming  to  the  office.  I  soon  made 
friends  with  her,  as  I  was  where  I  had  more  leisure  and 
less  of  the  office  drudgery  to  do.  At  first  she  would 
speak  to  me  as  'Mr.  Vain  Allen,'  then  as  she  would  hear 
her  father  call  me  'Wallace,'  she  came  to  calling  me  'Wal 
lace.'  One  day  she  told  me,  'Mr.  Wallace,  when  I  like 
people  awful  much  I  call  'em  "Tousin."  I'm  going  to 
call  you  "Tousin  Wallie."  Won't  that 'be  fun?  Tousin 
Wallie !'  And  after  that  she  would  call  me  by  no  other 
name.  It  was  about  this  time  that  Mr.  DeHertbern  in- 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  143. 

vited  me  to  his  house  to  dinner — the  very  first  time  in  the 
four  years  I  had  been  with  him.  In  all  that  time  I  had 
never  spoken  of  the  relationship  to  any  one  save  to  my 
mother,  who  was  overjoyed  to  hear  of  my  good  fortune  in 
getting  a  place  with  Mr.  DeHertbern. 

"That  evening,  after  dinner,  and  when  we  were  all  seat 
ed  in  the  large  family  room,  Mr.  DeHertbern  began  and 
told  a  very  entertaining  story  of  his  younger  days,  when 
he  was  poor.  He  told  how  that  a  man  by  the  name  of 
Thomas  Wallace  had  given  him  the  money  with  which 
he  was  enabled  to  reach  California.  'I  was  fortunate,' 
said  he,  'in  meeting  with  success  from  the  very  start.  I 
soon  returned  the  money — several  times  the  amount  I 
had  been  given — but  I  never  felt  that  the  debt  was  can 
celled.  Years  after  I  had  come  to  New  York,  a  young 
man  applied  to  me  for  a  position.  I  gave  it;  he  proved 
worthy,  as  I  felt  he  would.  Thomas  Wallace  was  my 
mother's  cousin.' 

"The  family  were  now  all  attention  as  Mr.  DeHertbern 
continued  his  story.  'And  the  young  man,'  (speaking 
very  slowly)  'was  the  grandson  of  Thomas  Wallace,  and 
that  young  man  is  your  cousin,  William  Wallace  Van 
Alden.'  Rube,  I  tell  you  it  was  worth  four  years'  waiting 
to  get  the  reception  I  was  given  at  that  moment.  Little 
Helen  nearly  cried  for  joy.  'Oh,  mamma,'  she  said  'he  is 
really  and  truly  "Tousin  Wallie."  : 

"I'm  afraid  in  the  cousinly  kisses  they  forgot  dis 
tance  altogether,  but  I  did  not  remind  them  of  it,  especially 
so  Beatrice,  who  seemed  quite  as  happy  as  Helen.  Since 
that  time  I  have  not  only  been  advanced  rapidly  in  the 
business,  but  I  am  always  given  a  welcome  in  their  home. 

"But,  Rube,  you  have  had  enough  of  my  story.  Tell 
me  your  experience  since  coming  to  New  York,"  and  I 
told  it  during  his  several  visits. 


144 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


Bill  called  it  "Rube's  continued  story."  He  laughed 
over  my  many  mistakes. 

"I'll  wager,"  said  I,  "that  no  city  boy  who  had  never 
been  outside  of  his  own  town  in  his  life;  one  who  had 
never  heard  of  the  country  except  as  a  place  where  grass 
grows,  could  have  done  any  better  in  Highmont  than  I  did 
in  New  York.  Don't  you  remember,  Bill,  the  two  preach 
er's  boys,  Walt  Heaver  and  Wilbur  Cannon,  who  used  to 
come  with  their  fathers  quarterly  meeting  time  ?  Oh,  the 
fun  we  had  with  them !  You  mind  how  Walt  wanted 
some  specimens  of  'last  year's  bird's  nests'  to  take  home 
and  how  we  got  behind  the  trees  while  he  pulled  down  a 
hornet's  nest  that  was  still  in  business?  Wasn't  lie  a 
sight  the  next  day !  He  said  afterward  that  it  looked  just 
like  the  picture  of  an  oriole's  nest.  And  don't  you  mind 
the  day  we  taught  Wilbur  the  'half  bushel'  trick  and  how 
he  had  to  stay  in  bed  for  two  clays  afterward !  I  may 
be  very  ignorant  of  city  ways,  but  so  far  I've  not  picked 
any  'last  year's  birds  nests'  or  tried  to  kick  a  half  bushel 
with  my  heels  higher  than  somebody  else.  Walt  and 
Wilbur  were  simply  ignorant  of  things  about  which  they 
had  not  heard.  Such  may  have  been  the  case  with  me. 
I  may  have  been  pretty  'green,'  but  I  guess  the  professor 
with  the  'baby  pillow  mittens,'  is  about  the  only  one  who  is 
ahead  so  far,  except  the  cab  driver,  and  I  will  get  along 
up  his  way  before  I  am  through.  With  the  professor,  you 
notice,  I  have  no  spirit  of  revenge.  I  simply  am  satisfied 
to  allow  him  to  'wear  the  belt,'  as  they  say  here.  I  have 
no  desire  to  get  anywhere  near  even  with  him.  But  say, 
Bill,  when  I  wrote  sister  Anna  I  told  her  to  tell  big  Joe 
Long  that  if  he  came  to  New  York  that  I  would  intro 
duce  him  to  a  friend  of  mine,  'a  real  live  professor.'  If 
Joe  comes — well,  Bill,  you  know  big  Joe  was  the  only  one 
who  could  out  box  me.  and  he  has  a  notion  that  he  knows 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  145 

the  'manly  art'  by  heart.  I  thought  I  knew  it,  too,  but 
went  clear  asleep  trying  to  prove  it  to  the  professor." 

"Do  you  know,"  asked  Bill,  "that  Edward  understands 
the  art  of  self  defense?  In  fencing  with  swords  he  dis 
armed  a  French  professor  from  Paris  who  wore  cham 
pionship  medals,  and  as  a  pistol  shot  he  has  few  equals. 
He  is  so  non-communicative,  however,  that  one  never 
would  know  from  him  what  he  can  do.  He  is  power 
fully  built  and  his  muscles  are  like  finely  tempered  steel. 
Unlike  too  many  rich  men's  sons,  he  has  the  constitution 
of  a  yeoman.  Have  you  heard  him  sing,  accompanied  on 
his  guitar?  You  have  not?  Well  you  have  that  pleas 
ure  in  store.  I  have  never  heard  so  fine  a  voice  as  his." 

And  as  Bill  ran  on  I  wondered  if  there  were  anything 
Edward  could  not  do. 

Just  then  the  subject  of  our  conversation  came  into  the 
conservatory,  where  I  often  sat  after  I  could  walk  about. 

"Well,  well,"  said  he  in  his  most  cheerful  manner,  "and 
so  the  invalid  is  walking  about !  Glad  to  see  you  improve 
so  fast,  but  Ruben,  remember  there  is  no  hurry ;  you  must 
give  the  bones  plenty  of  time  to  knit !" 

"Dr.  Whipple  says  it  will  be  safe  for  me  to  leave  the 
hospital  in  one  week  from  to-day." 

"So  soon  ?"  asked  Edward.  "And  Ruben,  that  is  what 
brings  me  here  to-day.  Father  and  I  have  been  talking 
the  matter  over  and  we  feel  an  interest  in  your  future. 
What  do  you  purpose  doing  when  you  have  bidden  good 
bye  to  your  good  gentle  nurse  and  faithful  Dr.  Whipple  ?" 

"In  the  first  place,"  I  replied,  "Bill  has  promised  to  take 
me  out  to  see  the  city  and — 

"Keep  you  off  the  Bowery,"  broke  in  Bill. 

"We  will  take  a  few  trips  around,  and  I  will  then  have 
to  go  back  home,  as  it  has  taken  me  a  long  time  to  do 
what  I  had  come  for — to  find  my  friend  Bill." 


146  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

"I  do  not  mean  your  immediate  intentions.  What 
have  you  laid  out  as  a  life  work  ?" 

"I  suppose  I  shall  go  back  and  run  the  farm,  that  is 
about  all  I  am  fitted  for,  and  I  am  sure  it  is  the  only  thing 
I  can  afford  to  do,  as  I  have  not  the  necessary  education 
for  a  profession  and  cannot  afford  to  gain  such  an  edu 
cation." 

"That  is  just  the  point  of  which  I  wish  to  speak,"  said 
Edward.  "Father  and  I  have  both  noticed  that  you  have 
a  turn  for  a  profession." 

I  thought  again  of  the  only  two  I  had  had  much  experi 
ence  with  since  I  came  to  the  city,  neither  of  which  I 
would  choose  as  a  life  work. 

"How  would  you  like  medicine?" 

"No.     I  never  liked  medicine — even  as  a  child !" 

"How  would  you  like  the  ministry  ?" 

"Bill,  think  of  'Rube'  as  a  preacher!  No,  Edward, 
there  are  already  too  many  preaching  without  a  'call.' '' 

"The  law,  then?" 

"There,"  said  I,  "is  the  only  one  I  care  anything 
about.  In  it  I  could  fight,  contend,  argue  and  never  stop 
till  'lightning  strikes  the  building.'  I  don't  want  any  lit 
tle  damage  case  law,  or  the  defending  of  a  man  who  has 
deliberately  done  a  wrong,  but  in  defense  of  a  principle 
or  a  downtrodden  fellow  being  I  could  fight  to  a  finish  and 
never  tire." 

"Bravo,  Ruben !  You  talk  like  you  were  in  the  court 
room  already.  Yes,  Ruben,  law  should  be  your  life's 
work,  and  we  want  you  to  begin  at  once  its  study,"  said 
Edward. 

"I  might  myself  wish  to  begin  it,  but  my  reason  would 
tell  me  to  go  back  home  and  run  the  farm,  that  being  the 
only  calling  I  know  how  to  run  without  capital.  It  takes 
money,  Edward,  to  fit  one's  self  for  the  law,  and  money 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


147 


sufficient  I  have  not." 

"That  is  the  smallest  item  in  the  whole  matter,"  said 
Edward.  "If  you  will  agree  to  go  to  all  the  trouble  to 
study — and  it  will  be  hard  work — years  of  it — why,  we 
will  look  after  the  money  part,  and  be  most  happy  for  the 
privilege." 

"W hat !  you  pay  for  my  schooling,  my  education  !  Why 
should  you  ?  1  have  no  right  to  accept  so  great  an  offer. 
I  have  already  been  too  long  a  care  to  you  !" 

"You  forget,"  he  replied,  ''what  we  owe  to  you.  But 
for  you  Helen's  life  had  been  destroyed  and  our  home 
made  desolate." 

"Then  you  would  pay  me  in  money  for  doing  that 
which  I  had  been  a  craven  coward  not  to  do?  No,  Ed 
ward,  1  am  repaid  a  thousand  times  already,  and  as  long 
as  memory  lasts  the  payments  will  run  on,  growing 
sweeter  as  the  years  come  and  go.  I  appreciate  your  kind 
wish,  and  thank  you  for  it,  but  I  can  never  accept  money 
in  any  form  for  doing  a  duty." 

He  seemed  hardly  to  comprehend  my  refusal.  I  feared 
I  had  been  too  abrupt  in  it,  and  put  it  in  other  words  less 
emphatic,  but  with  the  same  meaning.  He  remained  but 
a  short  time.  He  said  to  Bill  afterward  that  he  had  never 
before  seen  a  man  so  determined  as  I.  He  could  not  see 
why  I  had  thrown  away  an  opportunity  to  reach  the  ob 
ject  of  my  ambition. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "there  are  single  days  when  we  make 
more  money  than  Ruben's  course  at  college  would  cost — 
and  yet  he  would  not  allow  us  to  work  just  one  day  for 
him."  It  is  so  strange  how  words  can  be  used.  To  look 
at  Edward's  sentence  to  Bill,  I  had  been  ungrateful  not 
to  allow  them  to  wrork  that  one  day  for  me,  and  for  a 
long  time  I  wras  puzzled  to  know  why  it  had  looked  that 
way,  but  then  this  thought  came  to  me :  A  wrong  cannot 


148  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

he  changed  into  a  right  by  words,  be  they  never  so  cun 
ningly  arranged. 

"It  would  have  been  a  pleasure  to  the  DeHertberns/ 
said  Bill,  "to  have  sent  you  through  college." 

"But  then/"  said  I,  "it  is  not  their  pleasure,  but  my 
own  self-respect  which  must  govern  my  own  actions.  I 
have  no  financial  claim  on  them,  however  grateful  they 
may  feel  toward  me,  and  to  have  accepted  what  I  had  no 
right  to  accept  would  have  made  me  feel  as  though  I  were 
being  educated  as  a  child  from  the  almshouse,  and  they 
would  always  have  looked  upon  me  as  a  possession  and 
not  as  a  self-respecting  man.  No,  Bill ;  1  will  go  back 
to  the  hills  and  plow,  sow  and  reap,  but  I  will  take  back 
with  me  an  unbroken  spirit." 

When  Bill  had  told  me  of  the  quiet  good  the  DeHert 
berns  were  continually  doing,  I  could  more  fully  ap 
preciate  Edward's  surprise  and  disappointment  at  my 
refusal  to  accept  the  law  course  at  college. 

"Nobody,"  said  Bill,  "knows  the  good  that  family  does 
during  each  year.  They  always  refuse  to  do  anything 
through  the  organized  charities,  for,  as  Mr.  DeHertbern 
says,  it  costs  two  dollars  to  distribute  one  dollar,  and  the 
real  needy  might  starve  before  help  would  reach  them. 
He  says  the  men  who  run  these  organizations  are  usually 
a  lot  of  broken-down  politicians,  who  would  be  paupers 
themselves  did  not  their  party  look  after  them,  and  yet 
the  arrogance  with  which  they  conduct  the  affairs  of  the 
organizations  is  almost  enough  to  drive  the  self-respect 
ing  poor  to  the  river  dock,  rather  than  to  ask  for  assist 
ance  at  their  hands. 

"I  have  often  gone  with  Edward  in  our  'slumming' 
suits,  and  quietly  helped  some  poor  family.  We  personal 
ly  investigate  each  case,  for,  Ruben,  the  city  is  full  of 
imposters.  We  have  often  found  a  family  drinking  and 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


149 


feasting  which  we  had  been  told  was  on  the  verge  of 
starvation.  I  have  often  heard  Edward  say  that  the  posi 
tion  of  the  very  rich  is  a  trying  one.  'If  one  give/  he 
would  say,  'in  a  way  that  the  public  knows  of  it,  then  one 
is  giving  only  for  show.  If  one  give  quietly,  so  that  the 
public  knows  nothing  of  it,  then  one  is  close,  miserly, 
stingy,  and  don't  deserve  the  smiles  of  fortune.  Again, 
if  one  give  and  the  public  knows  of  it,  then  one  is  overrun 
with  the  most  beseeching  letters,  calls  are  made  at  one's 
office,  at  one's  home,  on  the  street,  everywhere,  until  life 
is  a  burden,'  and  so  they  let  the  public  think  of  them  as 
close  and  miserly,  and  go  on  selecting  their  own  charities." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Ten  thousand  human  beings  cast  out  upon  a  cold,  selfish 
zvorld  that  the  feiv  may  make  a  little  larger  per  cent.! 

I  never  knew  how  far-reaching  a  simple  story  could  be 
until  one  day  Bill  asked  me  about  the  Anarchists'  story  of 
"The  Death  of  Little  Edith."  I  had  almost  forgotten 
that  I  had  told  Helen  and  Beatrice  about  Edith,  once  when 
Helen  had  begged  me  to  "tell  her  a  tale." 

"Well,"  said  Bill,  "Helen  told  the  story  when  she  went 
home;  told  it  and  cried  as  though  her  little  heart  would 
break.  That  very  day  Mr.  DeHertbern  had  had  a  long 
conference  with  a  syndicate  of  men  about  organizing  a 
trust  to  control  the  manufacture  of  a  great  product.  The 
papers  were  all  in  shape,  ready  for  signing  the  next  day. 
Mr.  DeHertbern  was  the  one  man  who  could  put  the 
'deal'  through.  If  his  signature  was  obtained,  the  com 
bination  of  fifty  'plants'  was  assured ;  if  he  refused,  the 
'plants'  remained  as  they  were.  Next  clay  every  member 
of  the  syndicate  was  present.  They  were  in  high  spirits. 
They  were  about  to  consummate  that  which  they  had 
worked  years  to  gain.  I  was  at  the  meeting.  The  chair 
man  was  in  his  seat,  and  the  assembly  was  called  to  order. 

:'  'Gentlemen,'  said  he,  'we  have  very  little  more  to  do — 
the  work  has  all  been  done,  but  the  signing  of  a  few 
papers.  Mr.  DeHertbern,  you  examined  this  paper  yes 
terday.  Just  sign  here  please — -there,  on  that  line.' 

"  'One  moment,'  began  Mr.  DeHertbern.     'I    did    not 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  151 

quite  understand  yesterday  how,  by  this  combination,  we 
would  gain  that  extra  per  cent.  In  fact,  I  did  not  think 
of  it  further  than  that  it  would  be  gained.' 

"  'Mr.  Secretary,'  said  'the  chairman,  'you  perhaps 
known  more  about  that  than  any  one  else.  Kindly  ex 
plain  to  Mr.  DeHertbern.'  The  secretary,  a  man  of  very 
great  importance,  from  a  certain  standpoint — his  own — 
arose  with : 

"  'Mr.  Chairman  and  assembled  gentlemen :  I  have 
given  this  matter  very  deep  study.  In  fact,  it  was  I  who 
conceived  the  thought.  It  was  born  in  my  brain,  and,  as 
the  chairman  wisely  said,  I  should  know  more  about  the 
matter  than  any  of  you;  and  I  do.  By  this  combination 
we  will  eliminate  competition  among  the  various  com 
panies  and  thereby  gain  higher  dividends ;  but,  gentlemen, 
the  great  source  of  gain  will  be  in  the  cutting  down  of 
plants.  Where  we  now  have  fifty,  we  will  be  able  to  do 
the  same  work  with  forty.  Think  of  it,  gentlemen.  Ten 
plants  cut  off  will  mean  a  dividend  that  will  place  our 
stock  among  the  best  paying  in  the  land.'  (Cheers  and 
rubbing  together  of  hands  among  the  members  of  the 
syndicate,  who  are  now  all  smiles.) 

"  'One  word  further/  said  Mr.  DeHertbern.  'How 
many  mill  hands  will  this  save  us  ?'  Looking  over  the  list, 
the  secretary  said : 

"  'Well,  taking  the  ten  mills  I  will  close,  I  find  they 
have  an  average  pay  roll  of  one  thousand  each — thus  I 
will  cut  the  pay-roll  down  ten  thousand  people.  Think  of 
it,  gentlemen,  ten  thousand  that  we  won't  have  to  pay!' 

"  'Yes/  quietly  spoke  Mr.  DeHertbern,  'but  what  will 
become  of  these  ten  thousand  ?' 

:'  'Ah,  there  it  is  again !'  replied  the  secretary,  his  face 
in  a  wreath  of  smiles.  'I  had  forgotten  to  speak  of  that 
point.  A  very  important  point  it  is.  These  ten  thousand, 


152  MY   FRIEND  'BILL. 

not  knowing  how  to  do  any  other  kind  of  work,  will  have 
to  follow  us  to  our  forty  remaining  factories,  and  with 
this  extra  number  of  idle  hands  we  can  get  labor  at  our 
own  price,  and  I  will  make  a  still  greater  per  cent,  for 
you.  Gentlemen,  the  more  I  think  on  the  subject,  the 
more  I  see  the  greatness  of  my  conception.' 

"  'I  am  glad  to  hear  your  explanation,,  Mr.  Secretary/ 
said  Mr.  DeHertbern.  'You  make  it  indeed  plain.  I 
had  not  looked  upon  the  matter  in  that  light  before,  and 
I  warrant  that  few  gentlemen  in  the  room  have.  Who  of 
you  want  an  extra  per  cent,  for  your  money  gained  at  the 
terrible  price — ten  thousand  human  beings  cast  out  upon 
a  cold,  selfish  world  in  order  that  we  few  here  assembled 
may  make — what  we  do  not  need — a  little  larger  per 
cent,  for  our  money.  Gentlemen,  I  will  not  sign.'  And 
no  one  urged  him.  The  meeting  adjourned.  The  various 
members  quietly  left  the  room,  and  went  back  to  their  fifty 
plants." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

"Then  tell  me,  I  begged,  how  can  you  distinguish  the 
gentlemen  from  the  waiters?" 

"You  can't  very  well  at  the  beginning  of  a  dinner,  but  at 
tlie  close  it  is  not  at  all  difficult,  as  the  sober  ones  are 
the  waiters.  This  may  not  be  original,  but  original 
things  are  not  looked  for  at  a  banquet." 

The  day  came  for  me  to  leave  the  hospital.  For 
many  reasons  I  was  almost  sorry  to  go.  When  I  look 
back  upon  those  weeks  I  cannot  remember  a  thing  I  would 
now  have  different.  Even  the  pain  is  forgotten  in  the 
pleasure.  Dr.  Whipple  said  I  had  been  a  most  obedient 
patient,  while  the  nurse,  when  she  bid  me  good-bye, 
seemed  even  sad,  and  hoped  I  \vould  come  back  some 
time — but  not  as  a  patient. 

Bill  came  for  me  and  we  went  away  together.  The 
reception  I  got  at  the  boarding-house  that  evening  was 
what  Bill  called  an  "ovation."  Even  the  Heathen  seemed 
glad  to  welcome  me  back.  The  landlady  said  that  old 
Mrs.  Crowley  had  taken  the  best  of  care  of  my  carpet 
sack  and  umbrella.  "An',  yis,  Misther  Rubing,  I  lit  naw 
wan  sa  yer  buke.  I  hid  it  awa'  far  ye."  I  was  thankful 
to  her,  for  one  never  likes  their  writing  to  be  seen  until 
it  reaches  the  printer.  No  doubt,  at  this  particular  point, 
some  reader  will  stop  long  enough  for  a  mental :  "Ruben, 
there's  where  you  made  a  mistake.  Had  you  shown  your 
manuscript,  I  might  not  now  be  a  reader." 

153 


154  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

In  selecting  my  boarding-  place,  by  a  queer  coincidence 
I  had  gone  but  just  around  the  corner  from  where  Bill 
lived  on  Fifth  avenue.  He  kindly  offered  to  share  his 
room  with  me,  but  I  was  well  situated  and  liked  my  fel 
low-boarders.  Besides,  I  couldn't  go  over  on  to  the 
avenue  all  at  once.  I  would  have  to  get  there  by  easy 
stages.  Bill  says :  "You  mean  a  cab."  Bill  never  will 
get  through  talking  about  Rube's  first  cab  ride,  or  "Rube 
on  the  ahvnu  hunting  for  Bill."  He  thinks  he  is  an  artist, 
but  the  pictures  he  draws  of  that  ride  would  not  be  any 
sort  of  a  guide  for  a  detective  if  he  were  looking  for  me. 

The  acciden:  had  all  but  ruined  my  Sunday  suit  of 
clothes — the  only  one  I  had.  The  first  thing,  therefore, 
to  do  after  I  left  the  hospital  was  to  get  an  entire  new 
suit.  Oh,  howr  I  did  then  wish  for  my  own  tailor  at 
home !  I  could  not  find  anything  in  the  whole  city  to 
equal  his  "cut."  In  desperation  I  had  to  get  some  clothes 
like  Bill  wore,  and  I  was  a  sight  when  I  got  them  on ! 
When  I  looked  into  the  glass  I  had  to  have  Bill  introduce 
me  to  the  fellow  who  looked  back  at  me.  I  didn't  know 
him,  although  Bill  said  it  was  myself.  What  made  it  so 
much  worse  was  that  as  soon  as  I  got  the  clothes  on  I 
had  to  get  my  hair  cut — the  first  time  for  two  or  three 
years — and  get  a  new  hat  and  shoes.  I  don't  know  how 
I  appeared  to  other  people,  but  I  certainly  looked  like  a 
"sight"  to  myself.  But,  then,  as  people  did  not  look  at 
me  any  more,  as  they  had  at  first,  I  began  to  think  it 
might  possibly  be  all  right,  but  I  could  not  help  dreading 
the  time  when  I  would  have  to  face  my  own  tailor  at 
home ! 

By  sitting  up  late  and  getting  up  early,  I  soon  got  used 
to  myself,  and  began  to  think  a  good  bit  of  the  "New 
Rube,"  epecially  when  the  DeHertberns  told  Bill,  after 
we  had  been  there  to  see  them,  that  "thev  had  no  idea  that 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  155 

Ruben  was  so  fine-looking.''  I  could  not  help  feeling  the 
compliment,  even  though  I  knew  it  was  the  clothes  they 
were  admiring  all  the  time.  I  was  finer  looking  in  the 
old,  but  if  they  liked  the  new  better  I  would  be  content. 

I  make  it  a  point  to  always  fulfill  a  promise.  I  had 
promised  the  great  man  I  met  the  day  I  came  to  New 
York  that  when  I  found  Bill  I  would  let  him  know.  I 
therefore  wrote  to  him — this  great  man,  the  after-dinner 
speaker — that  Bill  and  I  had  found  each  other,  but  that 
it  was  a  question  as  to  which  of  us  had  really  done  the 
finding.  "At  any  rate,"  I  wrote,  "we  are  found,  and  are 
very  happy."  I  told  him  I  had  had  a  number  of  adven 
tures  since  the  day  I  met  him ;  wrote  him  a  long  letter,  as 
he  had  been  so  sociable  that  day,  that  I  knew  he  would 
be  real  glad  to  hear  from  me.  When  I  told  Bill  all  this 
he  looked  at  me  for  a  minute  or  two  without  saying  a 
word.  And  then  all  he  said  was :  "Rube,  you  will  learn 
if  you  stay  long  enough  !  Do  you  suppose  — 
will  remember  even  having  seen  you?  No,  Rube.  He 
may  remember  the  stories,  but  has  long  ago  forgotten  the 
teller  of  them."  Well,  the  next  clay,  when  I  got  a  letter 
from  this  great  man,  written  by  himself  instead  of  by 
machinery,  Bill  looked  at  me  for  two  or  three  more  min 
utes,  when  I  told  him  about  it,  then  stopped  short  with : 
"Rube,  you'll  do ;  you'll  get  on  in  New  York !" 

"His  Highness,"  as  I  called  him,  had  not  only  remem 
bered  the  "teller"  of  the  stories,  but  had  remembered  his 
own  promise,  that  he  would  invite  me  to  a  dinner  that  I 
might  learn  how  after-dinner  speaking  was  done.  He 
said  that  the  "Hilarious  Sons  of  Kamskatka,"  of  which 
country,  among  numerous  others,  he  was  a  descendant, 
during  a  part  of  each  winter  season,  would  give  a  grand 
dinner  on  the  following  week,  and  that  he  had  secured 
tickets  for  mvself  and  a  friend.  "Would  I  come?" 


156  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

He  had  a  part  of  the  alphabet  in  one  corner  of  his 
letter,  the  bottom  left-hand  corner,  "R.  S.  P.  V."  I  could 
make  out  the  first  three  without  any  trouble — "Rite  Soon, 
Please,"  but  the  "V."  I  stopped  on.  I  could  not  decide 
what  he  meant.  I  'rote,  however,  at  once,  and  when  I 
saw  Bill  he  said  I  had  done  just  right,  but  would  not  tell 
me  wrhat  the  "V."  meant — unless  it  was  the  price  of  the 
ticket."  Bill  had  a  way  of  saying  these  things.  After  a 
long  while  it  occurred  to  me  that  he  had  said,  when  he 
invited  me  to  come  to  New  York :  "Yes,  Rube,  come  to 
the  city.  I  will  show  you  the  sights,  and  have  fun  with 
you!"  Was  his  manner  of  replying  to  me  "having  fun"? 
It  made  me  think  very  carefully  whenever  I  conversed 
with  him,  and  he  had  very  little  "fun  with  me"  after  that. 
Bill  is  a  good  fellow,  but  he  does  see  the  "fun  side"  of 
life,  if  any  man  ever  did.  I  used  often  to  wonder  if  he 
could  be  a  good  business  man,  and  yet  be  so  fond  of  a 
joke.  I  only  wondered,  however,  up  to  the  day  I  first 
called  on  him  in  his  office,  why  he  was  so  cold  and  busi 
nesslike  that  when  I  started  in  on  a  joke  he  froze  it  solid 
right  in  the  middle.  I  never  yet  have  finished  that  joke 
nor  even  started  one  in  his  office  since, 

I  invited  Bill  to  go  with  rne  to  the  dinner,  but  he  had 
an  engagement  for  that  evening.  I  then  asked  the  Re 
porter,  as  Bill  had  told  me  that  reporters  never  refuse  a 
dinner.  He  accepted.  He  said  he  was  used  to  dinners 
and  would  tell  me  how  to  act  if  I  needed  any  instructions. 

"In  the  first  place,  you  will  need  a  dress  suit,  which  you 
can  hire  for  the  occasion.  There  are  places  in  the  city 
where  you  can  hire  a  suit  for  one  night  or  as  long  as  you 
want  it." 

"You  don't  mean,"  said  I,  "that  one  man  will  wear  a 
suit  of  clothes  which  perhaps  a  hundred  other  men  have 
worn  before,  do  you?" 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  157 

"Oh,  yes,  that  is  very  common." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "it  is  too  common  for  me.  If  I  have  to 
wear  a  dress  suit  and  cannot  wear  my  own,  then  I  will 
not  go  out  where  dress  suits  are  required."  I  might  not 
need  such  a  suit  again  in  my  life,  but  I  was  so  set  on  go 
ing  to  the  dinner  of  the  "Hilarious  Sons  of  Kamskatka" 
that  I  would  go  and  have  one  made. 

"But,"  said  I,  "it  will  be  impossible  to  have  it  finished 
in  time.  The  dinner  is  only  one  week  off." 

The  Reporter  seemed  much  amused  at  this,  to  me,  in 
surmountable  obstacle. 

"Why,  Rube,"  said  he,  "there  are  places  in  New  York 
where  you  can  order  a  suit  one  day  and  get  it  the  next." 

This  was  a  revelation.  My  own  tailor,  at  Highmont, 
would  think  he  had  done  well  to-  finish  an  ordinary  suit  of 
clothes  in  four  weeks,  but,  then,  much  of  his  time  is  taken 
up  with  his  barbering  and  horse  doctoring. 

I  was  quite  busy  after  the  suit  came,  trying  it  on,  and 
getting  used  to  it.  I  had  never  even  seen  a  dress  suit  be 
fore,  and  felt  so  strange  that  I  was  sure  I  never  could  feel 
easy  in  it,  but  before  the  night  of  the  dinner  I  was  sur 
prised  how  comfortable  I  felt.  T  was  sure  I  would  have 
difficulty  in  proving  my  identity  to  the  great  after-dinner 
speaker,  as  I  looked  no  more  like  the  Rube  he  saw  than 
the  old  Kamskatkans  did  like  their  hilarious  sons. 
When  I  am  utterly  at  a  loss  to  know  how  to  describe  any 
thing,  I  make  it  a  point  not  to  describe  it.  This  dinner 
was  one  of  those  "anythings."  I  was  bewildered.  I  had 
never  seen  a  dinner  like  it.  It  was  not  what  there  was  to 
eat — for  that  matter,  there  was  nothing  like  as  much  as 
Elenora  has  for  an  every  Sunday  dinner,  but  the  decora 
tion  of  the  hall,  the  glare  of  lights,  the  music  hidden  away 
behind  a  bower  of  ferns  and  flowers,  the  elegant-looking 
men  who  surrounded  the  tables,  and  a  hundred  other 


158  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

points  of  interest  that  made  it  seem  so  strange  to  me. 
When  all  the  tables  were  filled  a  large  number  of  other 
gentlemen  came  in,  but  when  I  saw  this  last  number  carry 
ing  dishes  and  'bottles,  and  helping  those  seated  at  the 
tables,  I  turned  to  the  Reporter  and  asked  him  why  they 
should  do  this,  "Why  are  they  not  seated,  too?"  I  asked. 

When  the  Reporter  had  finished  a  smile  which  he  had 
started  in  on  at  my  question,  he  told  me  that  this  last  num 
ber  were  the  waiters. 

"That  cannot  be,"  said  I,  "for  see,  they  are  wearing 
dress  suits,  too.  Waiters  do  not  dress  like  gentlemen,  do 
they?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  he  said. 

"Then  tell  me,"  I  begged,  "how  can  you  tell  the  gen 
tlemen  from  the  waiters  ?" 

"You  cannot  very  well  at  the  beginning  of  a  dinner,  but 
at  the  close,  it  is  not  at  all  difficult,  as  the  sober  ones  are 
the  waiters." 

He  also  said :  "This  remark  is  not  original,  but  original 
things  are  never  looked  for  at  dinners." 

I  was  glad  when  the  dining  was  over.  It  was  the  after- 
dinner  part  for  which  I  had  bought  my  dress  suit. 

The  chairman  said  many  good  things,  which  the  diners 
applauded  most  heartily.  He  was  followed  by  a  number 
of  speakers,  but  every  one  seemed  impatient  to  hear  the 
great  man  of  the  evening,  my  friend  on  whose  invitation 
I  had  come.  He  was  applauded  the  moment  his  name 
was  mentioned.  He  arose,  smiling,  and  began  talking  so 
easy  and  went  along  so  smoothly  that  I,  who  knew  noth 
ing  of  the  art,  could  see  why  he  was  known  as  a  great  en 
tertainer.  It  was  when  he  began  illustrating  his  points 
with  stories  that  the  company  seemed  in  its  best  humor. 
Imagine  my  surprise,  though,  when  I  heard  him  relating 
my  own  stories,  the  ones  I  had  told  him  the  day  he  in- 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  159 

vited  me  into  his  house  on  Fifth  avenue.  They  were 
mine,  but  so  changed,  in  dress  and  locality,  from  the  time 
I  had  heard  old  Uncle  Dave  Carter  and  Dave  Stoner  tell 
them,  in  Carter's  tavern,  that  I  would  scarcely  have 
known  them  if  I  had  met  them  alone.  A  number  of  those 
around  me  seemed  quite  as  surprised  as  I.  One  man  at 
my  right  said,  "That's  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  him  tell 
that  story.  I  wonder  where  he  got  it !" 

"Yes,"  said  another,  "I  had  remarked  the  same  thing." 

"It's  the  first  time  I've  heard  several  of  his  stories.  And 
do  you  notice,  he  tells  them  as  though  he  knows  they  are 
new." 

He  kept  the  company  so  constantly  engaged  applauding 
that  they  must  have  been  tired,  in  body  but  not  in  mind, 
by  the  time  he  had  finished.  He  did  talk  so  readily  that 
after-dinner  speaking  just  then  seemed  to  me  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world  to  do.  When  he  sat  down  the  chair 
man  arose  and  said :  "Gentlemen,  we  have  to-night  with 
us  a  stranger  from  a  neighboring  State.  He  is,  no  doubt, 
unknown  to  most  of  you,  save  possibly  by  casual  news 
paper  mention,  but  that  matters  little.  Even  the  greatest 
among  us  were  once  unknown.  We  welcome  to  our  city 
the  young  Pennsylvanian  who  is  destined  to  make  his 
mark  in  New  York." 

At  this  point  I  was  glad  to  hear  that  there  was  another 
from  my  owrn  State.  I  felt  I  must  meet  him,  as  some 
how  one  loves  his  owrn  people  best  when  he  is  in  another 
State,  far  from  home. 

"This  young  man  is  quite  an  original  character,  and  is, 
moreover,  a  poet.  Yes,  gentlemen,  a  poet." 

I  was  more  desirous  now  than  ever  to  meet  him,  for  I 
always  had  a  kindly  feeling  toward  poets,  as  they  do  seem, 
by  the  newspaper  writers,  to  have  such  hard  lines  in  this 
world.  Just  then  I  saw,  for  the  first  time,  Edward  De- 


160  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

Hertbern  sitting  behind  the  chairman.  Even  then  it  did 
not  occur  to  me  what  was  coming,  and  it  was  fortunate 
that  I  did  not  know,  else  I  had  not  had  the  strength  to 
get  up,  as  I  do  get  scared  weak  so  readily.  Those  were 
my  running  thoughts  as  he  talked. 

"You  will  now  be  entertained  by  our  young  poet  friend 
from  Highmont,  Pennsylvania,  Mr.  A.  Ruben  Hicken- 
looper;  gentlemen,  Mr.  Hickenlooper." 

I  must  have  "lost  my  head,"  as  they  say,  for  I  was  up 
on  my  feet  talking  before  I  knew  where  I  was  or  what  I 
was  doing,  but  once  up,  I  would  never  back  out. 

"Gentlemen,"  I  began,  "I  would,  indeed,  have  to  be  a 
most  original  character  to  be  able  to  respond  to  a  call  for 
an  after-dinner  speech  at  the  first  meeting  of  this  kind  I 
had  ever  heard  of,  much  less  attended.  I  came  to-night 
to  have  my  curiosity  gratified.  I  came  as  a  guest,  not  as 
a  victim.  I  came  to  listen,  not  to  talk.  The  chairman 
has  spoken  of  me  as  a  poet.  His  opinion  is  sadly  at  vari 
ance  with  that  of  my  father.  My  father,  a  highly  edu 
cated  man  for  his  locality,  but  whose  education  runs  en 
tirely  in  a  prose  direction,  once  said  to  me,  'Ruben,  poets 
are  of  no  use  to  the  world.  They  are  a  shiftless,  weak 
set.  A  poet  is  always  poor.  Rather  than  have  a  son  of 
mine  a  poet,  I  would  see  him  for  the  last  time.  I  would 
feel  like  disinheriting  him.'  My  reply  was  at  least  char 
acteristic  of  a  poet,  if  naught  else.  While  a  poet  may  not 
care  what  is  said  to  him,  he  will  never  disclaim  his  muse. 
'Father,  do  you  not  know  that  I  write  poetry?'  The  look 
that  came  over  his  face  ought  to  have  stopped  me  right 
there,  but  it  did  not.  'Yes,'  I  continued,  'I  write  poetry, 
quite  pretty  verse.  I  will  show  you  a  poem  I  have  just 
completed.  I  am  sure  it  will  please  you.'  It  was  very 
fine.  It  was  on  'The  Raven  Locks  of  Lily  Ann,'  a  near 
by  neighbor's  daughter.  I  brought  the  poem  from  the 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  l6i 

next  room.  He  took  it,  looked  it  carefully  through, 
smiled,  and  opened  his  arms.  'My  son,  my  dear,  dear  son, 
Ruben ;  come  to  your  father's  arms.'  I  came  quickly,  oh, 
so  pleased  to  think  1  had  \von  him  over,  but  no  wonder,  I 
thought — the  poem  was  so  fine.  I  got  to  his  arms,  but  he 
kept  right  on  talking  when  I  thought  he  had  quite  fin 
ished.  'Yes,  my  boy,  my  own  Ruben,  that  (he  didn't 
name  it,  only  called  it  "that"),  lifts  a  load  from  my  heart. 
It  shows  me  that  you  are  no  poet,  and  never  will  be.  I 
shall  never  disinherit  you  for  poetical  reasons.'  My  little 
heart  was  so  crushed  that  the  Muse  did  not  dare  look  me 
in  the  face  for  a  long  while.  When  she  did,  my  sister  got 
the  benefit.  Anna  was  one  of  those  sweet,  gentle  sisters, 
whom  the  small  boy  loves  to  go  to  with  all  his  cares  and 
joys.  It  was  the  'joys'  that  took  me  to  her  on  this  one 
particular  occasion.  I  had  written  another  poem,  written 
it  and  wept  over  some  of  the  more  pathetic  verses.  I  did 
not  dare  show  it  to  father,  for  this  time  I  knew  I  would 
not  get  O'ff,  as  I  had  before ;  this  was  a  real  poem — one  of 
the  disinheriting  variety.  No,  father  should  not  see  this 
one.  I  would  read  it  to  Sister  Anna  alone.  I  did.  I 
read  it  to  her,  or  rather  began  it.  I  reached  the  third 
verse  of  the  thirteen,  when  I  saw  a  sadness  come  over  the 
face  of  dear  sister  Anna.  I  knew  the  pathetic  part  was 
having  its  effect,  but  much  sooner  than  I  had  expected. 

'  'Brother  Rube,  dear  brother  Rube.  Do  you  love 
me?'  Gentlemen,  I  have  heard  that  question  many  times 
since  and  under  various  circumstances,  but  it  never 
sounded  as  it  did  then. 

"I  said :  'Yes,  sister  Anna,  I  do>  love  you !'  I  did  and 
do  yet. 

"She  said,  with  tears  trickling  along  down  the  sides  of 
her  voice: 

"  'Well,  Ruben,  my  sweet,  kind  brother,  if  you  love  me, 


162  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

and  love  me  truly,  please  don't  read  any  more  of  that 
stuff.'  And  yet,  gentlemen,  your  chairman  has  intro 
duced  me  to  you  as  a  poet.  It  will  show  you  how  little 
chairmen  know  about  things  in  general,  and  poets  in  par 
ticular.  Some  of  the  stories  told  us  this  evening  reminds 
me  of —  •"  and  then  I,  having  gotten  started  and  warmed 
up  by  kindly  applause,  went  on  and  told  them  a  number  of 
stories  which  I  had,  fortunately,  not  told  to  the  great 
man.  I  never  will  know  how  I  did  it,  but  I  talked  in 
fairly  good  voice  and  without  any  hesitation  or  break 
from  start  to  finish.  When  I  was  through,  Edward 
came  over  and  said  he  had  only  asked  the  chairman  to 
call  on  me  to  see  if  I  could  even  get  on  my  feet. 

"I  had  not  the  least  notion  of  your  being  able  to  talk  at 
all,  much  less  make  one  of  the  best  speeches  of  the 
dinner." 

The  great  man  came  up  while  Edward  and  I  were  talk 
ing,  and  said  he  would  have  to  look  to  his  laurels  or  I 
would  pluck  them.  As  I  had  expected,  he  was  greatly 
surprised  at  the  change  in  my  appearance.  I  thanked 
him. 

"It  shows,"  said  I,  ''how  great  a  speaker  you  are,  that 
a  boy  newly  arrived  from  a  remote  village  could,  by  the 
inspiration  of  your  words,  be  able  to  make  his  first  after- 
dinner  speech  without  failing  from  very  fright." 

The  Reporter  wrote  up  the  dinner,  and  to  compensate 
me  for  the  invitation,  I  suppose,  he  spoke  very  well  of  my 
speech.  I  sent  the  paper,  with  the  notice  of  it  marked,  to 
sister  Anna.  Bill  said  to  me  next  day,  that  when  Ed 
ward  told  at  home  about  my  speech,  that  Mr.  DeHertbern 
remarked : 

"Edward,  Ruben  must  stay  in  New  York."  As  usual, 
however,  I  cared  more  for  what  Helen  said  than  for  all 
the  other  compliments. 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  163 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ruben,  Edward  said  that  you  said  you  were 
not  a  poet,  and  you  are  a  poet.  Don't  you  know  about 
that  bad,  good  man  what  saved  the  little  children  ?  That 
was  poetry,  wasn't  it?  'Course  it  was.  And  he  said  you 
told  some  awfully  funny  stories,  and  made  everybody 
laugh  all  the  time.  He  said  he  only  had  the  man  ask  you 
to  speak  just  to  get  a  joke  on  you,  but  he  said  he  was 
glad  it  was  on  him.  My  papa  wants  you  to  be  a  lawyer — 
won't  you  be  a  lawyer,  Air.  Ruben?" 

"I  may  some  time,  but  not  now.  I  will  have  to  go  back 
to  the  mountain  country  in  a  very  little  while,  and  I  may 
never  come  back  to  New  York,  but  I  will  often  think  of 
it." 

"You  don't  mean  never — never !  You  don't  mean  that 
you  will  go  away  off  and  not  come  back  to  see  us  in  all 
your  whole  life?  If  you  go  away,  I  will  make  Edward 
or  my  papa  take  me  to  see  you  ;  then  I  can  see  Pauline  and 
Evelyn  May  and  the  cousins.  Oh,  yes,  and  the  big  dogs 
and  the  rag  doll,  and  I  will  make  you  come  back  to  New 
York  with  me,  cause  you  saved  me,  and  now  you  are  my 
Mister  Ruben,  and  I  won't  let  you  stay  in  the  mountains. 
Tousin  Wallie  says  I  am  a  little  fairy,  and  you  know  little 
fairies  make  big  men  mind  just  what  they  tell  them,  if 
they  don't,  the  little  fairies  just  turn  the  big  men  into 
elephants.  You  don't  want  to  be  a  big  elephant,  do  you, 
Mister  Ruben?  -Then  you  must  not  go  back  to  the 
mountains." 

"Why,  Helen,  you  would  not  turn  your  Ruben  into  an 
ugly  big  elephant,  would  you?" 

"I  only  mean  for  a  little  bit  of  a  while,  till  you  would 
say  you  would  stay  in  New  York.  Oh,  Mister  Ruben, 
I  don't  want  you  to  go  away,"  and  she  was  almost  crying. 
So  I  told  her  I  would  not  go  away  for  a  whole  week. 


164  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

"But,  Mister  Ruben,  a  week  is  such  a  little  while.  I 
want  you  to  stay  forever,"  and  she  could  scarcely  be  in 
duced  to  let  me  go,  for  fear,  as  she  said,  I  would  run  away 
to  the  bis  mountains. 


CHAPTER  XXXI II. 

/  see  strange  men,  many  of  them.  They  bear  the  maiden 
away.  They  conduct  the  man  and  woman  to  the  foot 
of  the  mountain. 

Two  very  important  things  occurred  that  one  remain 
ing  week  of  my  stay  in  New  York.  Rather,  Edward  and 
I  heard  of  them  that  week.  Both  of  them  were  of  vast 
import,  as  they  changed  the  course  of  our  two1  lives.  Ed 
ward  had  from  time  to  time  received  letters  from 
Professor  Blake,  his  hieroglyphical  friend.  The  professor 
would  often  write  a  whole  page  of  birds  and  figures  for 
Edward  to  translate.  He  would  consult  with  an  old 
Egyptologist,  whom  he  had  met  through  the  professor, 
and  if  there  were  parts  he  could  not  translate,  this  old 
man  would  read  it  for  him.  This  last  week  of  which  I 
speak  Edward  received  a  long  letter  from  the  professor, 
who  was  then  in  Milan,  Italy.  He  had  been  there  but  one 
week  at  the  time,  he  wrote.  "Here  is  a  matter  which 
may  interest  you,"  and  then,  instead  of  writing  it  as  he 
should  have  done,  he  put  it  in  hieroglyphics.  He  did  not 
know  how  important  it  was  to  Edward,  else  he  would 
have  written  it  in  the  plainest  of  wrords  rather  than  in 
the  most  difficult.  Edward  puzzled  for  a  long  while 
over  it  and  could  make  out  but  little  further  than :  "Have 
seen  queen,  tomb,  beautiful,  in  Milan."  He  had  to  write 
this  last  word,  as,  of  course,  no  sign  could  represent  it. 
"What  could  he  mean  by  ''queen,'  'tomb'?" 

165 


166  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

"I  see,  I  see!"  said  Edward.  "He  has,  as  is  his  cus 
tom,  been  through  the  museums  of  Milan.  The  mummy 
of  the  beautiful  queen  of  the  tomb  had  been  brought  to 
that  city  and  is  now  in  one  of  its  museums.  Really,  Ru 
ben,  this  hieroglyphical  writing  is  not  all  bad.  It  is  like 
working  out  word  puzzles.  One  word  helps  you  on  to 
another.  Now  look,  Ruben.  You  see  this  figure?  Well, 
it  means  'queen' ;  but  wait  a  moment.  What  word  is  this 
before  'queen'?  It  has  the  sign  of  the  possessive,  but 
what  can  that  figure  mean?"  and  he  sat  buried  in  deep 
thought.  His  eyes  must  have  fallen  to  the  bottom  of  the 
page,  where  the  professor  had  signed  his  name,  which 
he  always  did  with  "Your  Friend."  There  was  that 
same  word,  "Your."  Edward  seemed  startled.  "What! 
'Your' — yes,  it  is :  'Your  queen.'  Ruben,  what  can  he 
mean  ?  But,  then — no — that  cannot  be.  He  must  mean 
that,  as  I  was  the  first  to  find  this  mummy  with  him,  he 
calls  it  mine,  my  queen.  No,  Ruben,  he  may  claim  the 
honor.  I  care  not  for  it.  My  queen  I  will  never  find. 
She  is  lost  to  me  forever."  I  w'ould  write  the  professor 
never  again  to  say  a  word  that  would  in  the  least  way 
call  up  in  Edward's  mind  the  woman  he  had  met  in  the 
strange  tomb.  Nothing  I  could  do  or  say  would  bring 
him  back  to  himself  after  one  of  these  words  had  been 
spoken.  On  every  other  subject  Edward  was  clear  and 
remarkably  bright  and  quick,  but  the  moment  his  mind 
was  called  to  the  'queen/  as  he  called  her,  that  moment 
he  was  a  changed  being,  and  it  was  often  days  before  he 
would  be  himself  again.  All  this  time,  while  I  was  think 
ing  to  write  to  the  professor,  Edward  sat  brooding  over 
the  letter.  He  suddenly  started  up.  "Look,  Ruben, 
look !  Here  is  a  word  before  the  one  which  I  know 
means  'beautiful.'  What  can  it  mean?  It  may  be  the 
key  to  the  story.  It  is,  Ruben,  it  is,  for  it  means  'more.' 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  167 

Oh,  I  see  it  all — all.  If  it  is  only  true,  the  world  for  me 
will  again  have  its  brightness.  It  has  been  a  dark  world 
since  I  lost  my  queen.  Listen,  Ruben,  here  is  what  I 
learn :  'Have  seen  your  Queen  of  the  Tomb.  Even  more 
beautiful.  In  Milan.'  'More  beautiful'  can  only  apply  to 
a  living  queen,  and  my  friend  knows  that  there  is  for  me 
but  one  living  queen,  and  he  has  seen  her  in  Milan.  I  am 
wasting  time.  I  will  hurry  to  my  old  Egyptologist,  and 
find  if  I  have  translated  aright." 

He  was  away  but  a  short  time.  When  he  returned,  his 
face  wore  a  strange  expression.  His  translation  had  in 
the  main  been  correct,  but  the  old  scholar  had  made  it 
smoother  and  even  more  plain,  that  the  professor  had 
seen  the  lady  whom  they  had  met  in  the  tomb.  This  old 
man  I  had  seen  once  with  Edward,  who  had  gone  to  him 
with  some  hieroglyphic  writings.  He  was  a  strange  man. 
His  skin  was  almost  like  parchment.  He  was  very  old, 
he  looked  a  hundred  years,  but  his  eyes  seemed  strangely 
penetrating  and  even  brilliant.  He  seemed  to  look  far 
away  at  times,  as  though  he  were  reading  things  not  yet 
known  to  us.  On  this  last  occasion,  Edward  told  me,  the 
old  man  was  strangely  impressed  by  the  professor's  let 
ter.  "When  he  had  read  it,  he  sat  long  and  looked  away 
off,  as  you  know  he  does,  Ruben,  and,  turning  to  me,  he 
said:  'She  is  not  in  Milan  now.  I  see  her  away  in  a 
deep  mountain  pass.  A  man  and  a  woman  are  with  her ; 
the  man  has  a  military  bearing.  I  see  strange  men, 
many  of  them.  They  bear  the  maiden  away.  They  con 
duct  the  man  and  woman,  bound,  to  the  foot  of  the 
mountain.  They  release  them,  and  when  the  man  would 
turn  back,  as  though  to  follow  and  bring  back  his  child, 
the  leader  of  the  strange  men,  a  powerful  fellow,  but  with 
kindly  manner,  persuades  him  that  it  would  be  useless. 
The  man  and  woman  return  in  their  carriage  to  Milan.  I 


1 68  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

see  a  young  man.  He  is  going  toward  the  mountain  pass, 
as  though  to  rescue  the  maiden.'  At  this  point,"  said  Ed 
ward,  "the  old  man  stopped,  looked  at  me  for  fully  a 
minute.  There  seemed  almost  sadness  on  his  face  as  he 
looked  away,  shaking  his  head.  Then  he  continued : 
'The  powerful  fellow  meets  him ;  they  fight  with  swords ; 
the  young  man  is  slain,  and — but  all  now  is  black.  I  see 
no  more.'  Xor  could  I  get  him  to  talk  further.  He 
would  only  say :  'I  see  nothing.' 

"Ruben,  a  steamer  sails  to-morrow.  I  have  cabled  the 
Professor  that  I  will  go  on  it." 

I  tried  to  dissuade  him.  Tried  to  show  him  that  the 
old  man  could  not  see  any  more  into  the  future  than  we 
could,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  "Suppose,  again,"  said  I, 
"that  he  could  read  aright.  Did  he  not  as  much  as  say 
that  you  would  be  slain  by  that  powerful  fellow?" 

"Ruben,  you  do  not  know  me.  Did  I  know  I  would 
be  slain,  yet  would  I  try." 

He  sailed  the  next  day,  as  though  to  visit  a  friend  in 
Milan,  a  count  whom  the  DeHertberns  had  entertained  at 
one  time  in  their  home. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A  loan  is  even  worse  than  a  gift.  A  gift  carries  zvith  it 
no  hope  of  a  return,  whilst  a  loan  dishonors  the  man 
zvho  fails  to  repay  it. 

It  was  now  the  evening  before  I  was  to  go  back  to  my 
home.  I  would  change  from  the  never-ceasing  noise  and 
hurry  of  New  York  to  the  quiet,  peaceful  solitude  of  the 
mountains,  where,  no  doubt,  I  would  remain,  a  good,  law- 
abiding  citizen,  for  the  rest  of  my  years.  My  friends  in 
the  city  would  think  of  me  for  a  while,  and  then  forget 
even  my  name.  Little  Helen  might  cry  herself  to  sleep  a 
few  nights,  as  for  a  favorite  pony  gone,  but  her  heart 
would  soon  go  on  loving  some  other  creature.  Young 
hearts  so  soon  forget.  I  would  not  forget.  The  life  of 
solitude,  which  I  must  hereafter  live,  would  have  so  little 
in  it  of  a  pleasant  nature,  that  each  moment  of  my  stay  in 
the  city  would  be  a  picture  fixed  indelibly  on  my  memory. 
And  often  in  the  after  days  I  would  turn  to  those  pic 
tures,  as  a  mind  relief  from  the  prosaic  drudgery  of  a 
farmer's  life.  Bill,  whose  life  \vork  was  laid  out  before 
him,  would  remain  in  New  York.  In  two  years  he  would 
marry  Beatrice,  and  become  one  of  the  great  firm  of  De- 
Hertbern  &  Co.  I  might  even  visit  him,  but  no  return 
to  New  York  would  ever  be  like  my  first  remembrance  of 
it.  I  could  never  take  another  "first  cab  ride/'  the  full 
length  of  Fifth  avenue,  hunting  for  that  avenue;  the 
museums  of  the  Bowery — aye,  the  Bowery  itself — would 

169 


I/O 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


be  an  old  story.  The  friends  of  the  boarding-house  would 
all  be  scattered  and  gone,  leaving  only  my  memory  of 
them,  and  no  others  would  ever  be  like  my  first  friends 
there.  I  would  never  again  meet  with  an  accident  tinder 
such  pleasant  auspices.  Helen  might  be  a  grown  young 
lady  on  my  return,  and  grown  young  ladies  had  never 
cared  for  me.  She  might  look  upon  me  as  a  vague  dream 
of  childhood,  or,  at  most,  as  Bill's  friend.  No,  this  last 
night  of  my  first  sojourn  among  the  friends  and  the 
pleasures  of  New  York  would  to  a  great  extent  end  all  the 
real  joys  of  the  city.  No  after  visit  would  be  the  same. 
I  would  ever  compare  it  with  my  first,  and  subsequent 
visits  always  lose  by  comparison.  At  times,  during  this 
retrospect,  I  would  ask  myself:  Has  this  visit  been  a 
profitable  one  to  me?  Would  not  my  life  have  been  a 
happier  one  had  I  not  known  the  joys  of  this  new  exist 
ence?  Would  not  the  mountain  home  of  my  boyhood, 
which  had  ever  seemed  bright,  with  nothing  to  contrast  it 
with,  seem  dull  and  lonely?  Would  not  the  good  but 
commonplace  friends  of  Highmont  lose  by  my  knowledge 
of  a  people  wholly  different  from  them  by  reason  of  su 
perior  advantages  ?  Would  not  the  laughing  brooks  bab 
ble  on  less  musically  to  my  ear  than  they  had  of  yore? 
Would  not  the  once  great  things  of  Highmont  lose  all 
their  greatness  now?  Aye,  my  brain  was  in  a  whirl.  I 
thought,  and  yet  could  think  no  thought  to  a  conclusion. 
I  fain  would  cease  trying  to  solve  the  problem.  I  would 
go  back  to  the  old  home,  and  make  the  best  of  the  life  I 
would  have  to  lead  there.  I  would  think  of  the  new 
friends,  and  try  to  go  on  loving  the  old.  I  would  try  to 
show  them  no  change.  I  would  do  my  duty  as  I  saw  it, 
and  at  the  end  lie  down  in  the  old  church-yard,  and  be 
forgotten  with  the  rest. 

Bill  and  I  were  due  at  the  DeHertberns  for  dinner.     I 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  171 

sat  so  long  in  thinking  over  my  home-going  that  I  had 
but  little  time  to  dress  before  he  would  call  for  me.  I 
was  getting  all  the  good  out  of  my  dress  suit  that  I  could, 
as  I  would  have  no  use  for  it  at  Highmont.  Bill  would 
not  let  me  wear  it  except  in  the  evening,  else  I  had  got 
ten  more  good  out  of  it.  In  some  ways,  I  used  to  think, 
Bill  had  peculiar  notions,  but  in  the  end  I  found  he  had 
learned  much. 

That  dinner  was  the  most  agreeably  sad  one  I  have  ever 
sat  down  to.  The  more  I  enjoyed  myself,  the  worse  I 
felt.  Agreeable  from  their  kindly  manner  toward  me, 
and  sad  in  thinking  it  was  the  last  I  might  partake  with 
them.  Mr.  DeHertbern,  ever  courteous,  had  never  shown 
the  same  consideration  for  me  before.  I  could  not  but 
think  that  he  must  respect  me  for  the  refusal  to  accept  his 
offer  of  a  course  in  law  school.  I  scarcely  expected  him 
to  speak  of  it,  but  he  did. 

(>Ruben,"  said  he,  "no  doubt  you  will  wonder  that  I 
again  refer  to  my  wish  that  you  should  take  a  course  in 
law,  but  I  cannot  allow  you  to  throw  away  an  opportunity 
to  enter  the  one  field  for  which  I  think  you  so  well  fitted. 
Had  you  the  means,  I  would  not  have  offered  to  assist 
you,  but  when  I  could  so  easily  gratify  a  wish,  and  at  the 
same  time  help  you  to  attain  your  own  desire,  I  felt  almost 
as  though  you  had  done  me  a  wrong  in  refusing.  Now, 
Ruben,  I  respect  you  more  than  I  can  tell,  and  I  would  not 
urge  you  further,  but  I  have  thought  that  you  might  pos 
sibly  accept  my  offer  as  a  loan,  to  be  returned  at  a  future 
time.  That  will  not  be  accepting  money  as  a  gift." 

"Mr.  DeHertbern,"  I  replied,  "a  loan  is  even  worse  than 
a  gift.  A  gift  carries  with  it  no  expectation  of  a  return, 
whilst  a  loan  dishonors  the  man  who  fails  to  repay  it. 
Should  I  accept  the  loan,  and  for  some  reason,  possibly 
one  which  I  could  not  govern  or  control,  be  unable  to 


172  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

give  it  back,  it  would  make  my  life  far  more  unbearable 
than  a  life  buried  away  among  the  stony  hills  of  High- 
mont.  There  would  be  no  pleasure  in  life  for  me  to  feel 
I  owed  that  which  I  could  not  pay.  The  debt  might  be 
forgiven,  but  the  humility  I  would  feel  most  deeply.  If 
I  could  tell  you  how  much  I  prize  your  offer  you  would 
not  feel  hurt  at  my  refusal  of  it."  I  shall  not  forget  the 
strange  look  he  gave  me,  but  he  never  again  reverted  to 
the  subject. 

When  the  dinner  was  over  we  went  into  the  music- 
room,  all  save  Mr.  DeHertbern,  who  went  up  to  the 
library.  It  seemed  so  pretty  to  see  Mrs.  DeHertbern 
seated  at  the  piano,  playing  accompaniments  for  Beatrice 
and  Bill.  I  was  pleased  to  hear  how  beautifully  they 
sang  together.  Their  voices  blended  in  the  sweetest  har 
mony.  They  sang  many  songs,  but  there  was  one  I  have 
so  often  thought  of  since.  I  only  remember  the  last  verse 
and  chorus.  I  am  not  even  sure  I  have  the  right  name, 
but  I  have  always  called  it 

"PRETTY  MOTH." 
"Be  content  with  your  lot 

Pretty  one,  pretty  one, 
And  make  use  of  the  joys  given  you ; 
Do  not  strive  to  gain  wealth  or  fame, 

Pretty  one. 

If  no  pleasures  they  bring  unto  you, 
Then  take  all  with  joy 
That  you  find  on  life's  path, 
And  be  thankful,  though  always  not  bright. 

Chorus. 

"For  many  things  in  this  world 
That  look  bright,  pretty  moth, 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  173 

Only  dazzle  to  lead  us  astray. 
Many  things  in  this  world 
That  look  bright,  pretty  moth, 
Only  dazzle  to  lead  us  astray." 

It  made  me  feel  almost  resigned  to  my  having  to  leave 
New  York.  I  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  "dazzle"  in  this 
great  city,  and  it  was  possibly  well  that  I  was  going  away. 

Helen  had  not  left  my  side  all  the  evening.  Just  before 
we  sat  down  to  dinner  she  had  whispered  to  me  that  if  I 
asked  her  mamma  she  "might  let  her  eat  with  the  big 
people,  just  this  once."  She  promised  to  be  the  "goodest 
girl"  and  not  to  "talk  even  a  little  bit."  It  seemed  really 
odd  to  watch  her  during  the  whole  dinner.  She  was  quiet 
the  longest  time  I  had  ever  before  known  her  to  be — and 
it  wasn't  a  relief  to  me,  either.  She  made  up  for  it  after 
we  had  gone  into  the  music-room.  When  the  singing 
had  ceased,  and  Bill  and  Beatrice  were  seated  for  a  game 
of  chess,  Mrs.  DeHertbern  looking  on,  Helen  said:  "Oh, 
Mr.  Ruben,  I  am  so  tired  being  still,  when  I  wanted  to 
talk  every  little  minute.  Tousin  Wallie  says  you  are 
really  and  truly  going  away  to-morrow  forever  and  ever. 
I  am  on'y  a  little  girl,  but  I  know  that  means  a  long,  long 
time.  Will  I  be  big  like  Beatrice  when  that  time  comes 
to  the  end?" 

"I  do  not  know,  Helen,  how  long  it  will  be.  I  may 
never  come  to  the  city  again.  You  must  not  feel  bad 
when  I  go.  You  can  play  with  your  pretty  dollies  and  go 
driving  in  the  park,  and  soon  forget  about  Ruben."  When 
I  said  this,  trying  to  divert  her  mind,  as  though  my  going 
was  of  little  importance,  it  had  the  other  effect.  She 
almost  screamed  out  crying.  Her  mother  ran  to  her 
with:  "Helen,,  what  can  be  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  mamma,  mamma,  Mr.  r.tiben  said  I  would  forget 


174 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


him  when  he  goes  away,  when  he  saved  me  and  got 
hurted  hisself.  I  can  never,  never,  never  forget  him, 
mamma ;  can  I,  mamma !  No,  Mr.  Ruben,  I  will  be  your 
Helen  forever  and  ever,,  and  will  never  forget  you !" 
And  as  she  threw  her  little,  chubby  arms  about  my  neck 
she  cried:  "I  will  love  you  always,"  and  would  scarcely 
let  go  when  her  mother  insisted  that  it  was  getting  late 
for  her  and  that  she  must  now  bid  Ruben  good-by. 

"Must  you  go,  Mr.  Ruben?  Won't  you  stay  and  be  a 
lawyer?  Papa  and  brother  Edward  want  you  to  so 
much,  for  I  hear  them  talking  about  you."  I  could  argue 
with  men,  but  the  pleadings  of  this  little  child  made  me 
helpless.  I  could  not  reply.  All  I  could  say  was :  "Good- 
by,  Helen.  Ruben  will  never  forget  you." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  DeHertbern  and  Beatrice  were  very  kind 
in  their  wishes  for  my  success  when  bidding  me  good-by. 
"Remember  now,  Ruben,"  said  Mr.  DeHertbern,  "if  ever 
you  need  a  friend,  under  any  and  all  circumstances,  you 
must  feel  free  to  call  on  me  !  Will  you  promise  me  ?'' 

"I  do  promise  most  heartily,  and  thank  you  for  your 
wish  for  mv  welfare." 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

Poor  old  Shyiock!  The  only  praise  ever  accorded  him, 
•when  lie  is  gone,  is  the  epitaph  found  on  his  tomb, 
at  which  all  smile  as  they  pass.  He  may  die  rich, 
but  seldom  mourned. 

No  doubt  the  reason  of  my  fear  of  money  obligations 
was  what  1  had  seen  at  home.  Father,  always  ambitious 
to  own  the  largest  farm  of  any  one  in  the  county,  had 
added  one  piece  after  another,  until  his  ambition  had 
reached  its  goal.  He  did  not  own  it,  although  everybody 
knew  it  as  his.  He  went  heavily  in  debt  in  order  to  secure 
the  land.  As  long  as  the  crops  were  good  he  kept  up  his 
interest  and  reduced  the  principal,  but  for  three  years  the 
crops  had  regularly  failed.  The  interest  on  the  notes 
could  not  be  met  and  the  taxes  were  far  over  due.  The 
man  who  held  father's  notes  for  thousands  of  dollars  was 
one  of  those  careful,  judicious  men  found  in  almost  every 
communitv.  He  starts  on  nothing,  of  which  fact  he  is  so 
fond  of  boasting,  and  from  that  "nothing"  grinds  out,  not 
only  many  a  dollar  of  the  hard-working  farmer,  but 
often  the  life  of  the  farmer  himself.  This  modern  Shy- 
lock  does  not  begin  the  grinding  until  the  "grist"  is  as 
large  as  it  will  grow. 

''Take  your  time.  I  do  not  need  the  money.  Why,  I 
have  saved  up,  and  can  loan  vou  another  thousand,  if  any 
accommodation." 

He  knows  to  the  very  dollar  the  limit  of  his  victim.    He 


176  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

will  not  go  one  dollar  beyond  that  limit.  He  is  then  "very 
sorry,"  but  he  "must  have  the  monev!"  When  he  dies, 
which  is  seldom  young,  he  always  has  a  large  funeral, 
everybody  attends,  that  there  may  be  no  error  as  to  the 
depth  of  the  grave.  The  only  praise  ever  accorded  him 
when  he  is  gone  is  the  epitaph  found  on  his  tomb,  at  which 
all  smile  as  they  pass.  He  may  die  rich,  but  seldom 
mourned. 

Father  was  in  the  grasp  of  a  characteristic  member  of 
this  class  of  men. 

Knowing  that  the  three  hundred  dollars  which  I  had 
saved  up  would  go  into  the  "grist"  if  I  gave  it  to  father, 
I  felt  I  would  at  least  have  one  "good  time"  in  my  life. 
For  that  reason  I  had  spent  my  money  freely  for  one  who 
had  not  yet  acquired  the  art. 

I  sat  long  into  the  night,  thinking  of  the  change  the 
morrow  would  bring  to  me.  The  morrow  came,  but  a  far 
different  change  it  brought  from  the  one  I  knew  of. 
I  was  going  home.  I  would  settle  down  to  the  quiet 
life  of  a  farmer,  and  the  life  of  the  city  would  be  but 
a  memory.  I  was  resigned,  but  I  was  not  happy.  I  had 
tasted  of  the  city,  and  it  was  pleasing.  The  life  of  the 
country  was  endurable,  but  that  was  all.  The  morrow 
brought  a  letter  from  sister  Anna,  and  that  letter  bore  the 
change  of  my  life.  Wonderful !  It  read  like  the  dream 
of  an  Aladdin.  Could  it  be  true,  or  was  I  in  a  dream  mv- 
self?  Listen  to  the  words  it  bore: 

"Oh,  Ruben,  I  fear  almost  to  tell  you,  as  it  may  not  be 
true.  It  is  too  good  to  be  true.  You  know  our  old  bar 
ren  farm?  Well,  Aunt  Radical  gave  us  far  more  than 
she  ever  dreamed  of.  She  gave  us  a  fortune.  Some  men 
came  to  see  you  the  other  day,  and,  not  finding  you,  they 
said  they  were  looking  for  a  farm.  Would  we  sell  the 
old  Darnell  farm?  'It  is  not  of  anv  value,  but  we  can 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  177 

fix  it  up  and  use  it  as  a  hunting  preserve.'  Now,  I  knew 
it  was  of  no  use  for  that.  The  creek  that  ran  through  it 
might  do  for  trout  fishing,  but  for  hunrng  it  was  not 
suitable.  I  spoke  to  father  about  it,  and  told  him  the 
reason  the  men  gave  for  wanting  it.  The  reason  was  so 
poor  that  father  at  once  became  suspicious.  You  know 
reports  have  been  flying  ever  since  oil  was  discovered  in 
the  State.  One  locality  after  another  has  'just  struck  oil.' 
It  had  not  yet  reached  our  county.  Father,  not  wishing 
to  discourage  them  away,  said  that  you  owned  a  half  in 
terest,  and  that  he  would  write  you,  and  if  they  would 
come  again  in  a  week  he  would  give  them  an  answer. 
They  seemed  greatly  disappointed,  and  before  they  left 
they  made  an  offer  for  us  to  'think  over,'  as  they  said. 
The  offer  was  so  far  beyond  the  value  of  the  land  that 
father  was  certain  there  must  be  something  beside  scrub 
oak  and  blackberry  bushes  on  it.  He  drove  at  once  to  the 
old  farm,  and  found  a  number  of  men  going  up  and  down 
the  creek.  They  were  so  intent  on  what  they  were  doing 
that  they  did  not  see  him,  although  he  got  almost  up  to 
them  in  the  underbrush.  One  of  them  said :  'There  are 
all  indications  of  oil !  Now,  if  we  can  buy  the  old  place 
before  that  boy  and  girl  know  what's  here,  it  will  be  a 
great  bit  of  business.'  Father  turned  and  came  away 
without  their  seeing  him.  I  would  have  written  you  at 
once,  but  I  did  not  wish  to  encourage  you  until  we  were 
certain.  Since  the  day  they  called  on  me  no  less  than 
four  different  men  and  parties  of  men  have  been  here,  and 
each  time  I  am  offered  a  higher  price,  until  I  am  utterly 
bewildered.  Oh,  I  know  not  what  to  do.  Oh,  Ruben,  if 
we  only  had  some  good  expert  to  go  over  the  farm  and 
find  what  it  is  worth,  it  would  help  to  determine  what  to 
do.  As  it  is,  the  sums  offered  have  increased  so  fast  that 
there  is  no  wav  for  us  to  tell  its  true  value.  I  do  not  want 


178  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

what  it  is  not  worth,  but  we  should  get  near  its  value. 
You  had  hetter  come  home  at  once,  as  this  matter  is  far 
more  important  than  New  York,  with  Bill  and  Fifth  ave 
nue  thrown  in." 

She  was  so  filled  with  the  oil  question  that  every  margin 
of  her  letter  was  taken  up  with  it,  and  not  a  word  about 
anything  else.  As  soon  as  I  had  read  the  letter  I  went  at 
once  to  see  Air.  DeHertbern,  who,,  I  knew,  was  in  some 
way  connected  with  a  company  that  dealt  in  oil.  When 
I  got  to  his  office  Bill  told  me  that  he  was  at  that  moment 
in  the  oil  company's  office,  where  they  were  holding  a 
meeting,  at  which  a  man  from  Pennsylvania  was  to  make 
a  report  on  a  great  "find"  that  had  just  been  made.  I 
was  so  excited  that  I  could  not  wait  for  Air.  DeHertbern 
to  return,  but,  learning  from  Bill  where  this  oil  company's 
office  was  located,  I  went  directly  to  it.  The  meeting  was 
just  being  called  as  I  arrived.  Air.  DeHertbern  seemed 
pleased  to  see  me  and  invited  me  into  the  meeting-room, 
explaining  to  some  of  the  directors  that  I  was  a  young 
friend  of  his.  Little  did  either  of  us  think  of  the  result 
of  that  meeting.  Preliminaries  were  quickly  gone 
through  and  the  "oil  find"  was  taken  up.  The  Pennsyl- 
vanian  proved  to  be  the  greatest  expert  on  oil  lands  that 
this  company  had. 

"My  attention,"  he  began,  "was  called  to  this  property 
by  some  well  men  who  are  continually  hunting  out  new 
fields.  Their  description  of  the  property  wras  so  glowing 
that  I  went  at  once  to  look  at  it,  and  I  found  it  even  better 
than  they  had  reported." 

"Did  you  find  who  owns  it?"  asked  the  chairman. 

"Yes;  it  belongs  to  an  old  man,  but  he  will  not  sell. 
At  any  rate,  every  time  he  is  approached  he  puts  off  the 
well  men  with  some  excuse — says  his  son  and  daughter 
own  it.  But  these  men  always  have  a  way  of  getting 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


179 


what  they  want.  They  soon  found  that  the  old  man  was 
heavily  involved  on  account  of  having  gone  in  debt  for 
more  farms  than  he  needed.  Well,  the  day  I  left,  the 
holder  of  a  claim  for  thousands  of  dollars  against  him,  be 
gan  suit,  and,  as  they  told  me,  'we  will  soon  be  in  a  po 
sition  to  negotiate  with  you !'  They  offered  the  old  man 
a  price  far  beyond  the  value  of  the  old  farm,  but  now 
they  say,  since  this  suit  has  begun,  they  can  get  it 
much  cheaper.  Of  course,  I  do  not  uphold  getting  prop 
erty  below  value,  but  these  well  men  are  too  important  to 
us  for  me  to  oppose  them,  so  I  have  to  let  them  have  their 
own  way.  I  have  examined  the  property  very  carefully, 
and  find,  if  we  can  get  it  for" — and  here  he  mentioned  a 
price  ten  times  greater  than  sister  Anna  had  told  me  the 
men  had  offered  her. 

I  sat  there  as  one  in  a  dream.  I  knew  what  was  being 
said,  but  I  could  not  realize  that  I  was  hearing  old  Aunt 
Radical's  homestead  talked  about  in  connection  with  any 
thing  of  value.  What  saddened  me  was  to  hear  that  old 
Shylock  had  begun  suit  against  father.  I  would  go  home 
and  fight  the  suit  as  long  as  possible,  in  the  hope  that  I 
could  find  another  buyer  for  the  land,  or  induce  the  well 
men  to  increase  their  offer.  What  I  had  learned  in  that 
meeting  I  could  not  use.  I  had  been  admitted  as  a 
trusted  guest,  as  Mr.  DeHertbern's  friend,  and,  moreover, 
I  could  not  now  tell  him  about  sister  Anna's  letter.  Oh, 
how  I  wished  I  had  not  gone  to  that  meeting.  After  the 
expert  had  finished  his  report  but  little  more  was  done, 
and  they  left  the  room.  I  said  nothing  about  what  I  had 
come  to  sav,  but  bid  Mr.  DeHertbern  eroocl-bv. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Father  urged  me  not  to  take  so  foolhardy  a  risk,  that  I 
had  no  knowledge  of  law.  At  this  I  whispered: 
"Neither  has  the  jury." 

I  left  New  York  that  night  and  reached  Highmont  the 
next  day,  the  stage  getting  into  the  village  at  noon.  The 
family  were  all  so  disheartened  over  the  coming  trial  that 
they  gave  me  a  very  poor  welcome. 

"Ruben,"  said  sister  Anna,  "to  think  that  what  we  had 
looked  upon  as  a  great  fortune  is  now  to  be  our  ruin. 
Since  old  Shylock  began  his  suit  on  the  notes  the  men 
who  made  us  the  offer  now  say  it  was  too  high,  and,  in 
fact,  they  think  they  can  find  another  place  that  will 
answer  their  purpose  better.  \Ye  have  told  them  that  we 
would  accept  the  offer,  as  I  knew  you  would  agree  to  any 
thing  that  will  save  dear  father  in  his  old  age ;  but  they 
say :  'No,  we  are  not  altogether  pleased  with  the  farm.  It 
is  too  remote.  It  is  too  barren  ;  not  enough  forest  on  it  for 
hunting  purposes.  In  short,  we  hardly  care  for  it,  but 
will  see  later  on  about  it.' 

"And,  Ruben,  old  Shylock  is  hurrying  up  the  trial  all 
he  can.  His  lawyers,  the  best  in  the  county,  have  gotten 
from  the  judge  nearly  all  they  asked  for.  He  has  pushed 
the  trial  away  forward  on  what  he  calls  the  calendar. 
Father's  one  lawyer  (all  he  can  afford,  and  a  poor  one  at 
that,  as  old  Shylock  had  secured  the  four  good  ones  in 
the  county  before  we  knew  of  the  trial)  has  done  what  he 

180 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  181 

could,  but  the  judge  never  hears  him  talking  if  any  one  of 
the  other  four  have  a  word  to  say,  and  every  time  our  law 
yer  wants  to  be  heard  at  least  two  of  them  are  up  with : 
'May  it  please  your  honor !'  and,  Ruben,  it  always  'pleases 
his  honor'  not  to  notice  little  Bennie,  as  people  call  our 
counsellor.  Oh,  Ruben,  what  will  we  do  ?  The  old  home 
will  be  sold,  and,  as  nobody  will  bid  against  Shylock,  he 
will  get  all  for  less  than  the  face  of  the  judgment  he  cannot 
but  get  in  the  coming  trial,  leaving  nothing  for  us." 

This  was  the  situation  when  I  came  home  from  my 
pleasure  trip  to  Xew  York.  I  found  how  true  the  saying: 
''The  greatest  joy  and  the  greatest  sorrow  are  closely  al 
lied."  If  you  see  the  first,  look  around,  and  the  second 
will  soon  be  along.  Never  had  I  had  as  much  joy  in  all 
my  life  as  I  had  seen  on  this  visit  to  Bill,  and  never  was 
there  such  a  prospect  of  sorrow  as  now. 

I  was  not  one  to  sit  down  and  bewail  at  my  fate.  My 
nature  was  to  fight  better  as  the  "under  man."  I  soon 
found  that  "Bennie"  was  well  named.  He  was  well 
enough  learned  in  the  law ;  in  fact,  he  had  been  the  medal 
man  of  his  class,  but  my  opinion  of  medal  men  by  this 
time  was  very  poor  indeed.  As  I  said,  he  was  well 
learned  in  the  law,  but  he  had  no  fight  in  him.  He  knew 
what  to  say,  but  he  had  no<  force.  A  jury  seldom  thinks 
of  what  a  lawyer  says,  but  how  he  says  it.  I  once  saw  a 
trial  in  Highmont  where  this  was  proven  true  most  con 
clusively.  The  law  provides  that  "if  an  animal  is  found 
on  the  highway  unattended  by  a  caretaker  the  fine  for  the 
same  shall  be  75  cents.  If  the  animal  shall  do  any  dam 
age  to  field  crops,  said  damage  shall  be  assessed  and  the 
animal  held  until  paid  by  the  owner  of  such  animal."  I 
am  not  a  law-book  writer ;  that  is  why  the  above  is  not  put 
in  exact  legal  phrase,  but  you  will  note  that  I  used  "said" 
and  "same,"  which  will  in  a  great  measure  excuse  the  re- 


1 82  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

mainder.  Well,  to  proceed  with  the  story  in  question : 
'"Hen"  Titer's  cow,  usually  a  quiet  '"baste,"  did  get  on  the 
highway — 75  cents — and  did  get  into  fanner  Crumley's 
cornfield,  and  did  eat  and  destroy  $4.12^  worth  of  corn — 
$4.87^  in  all.  This  amount  "Hen"  Titer  by  law  must  pay. 
"Hen"  called  for  a  jury  trial,  and,  by  a  strange  fate,  every 
one  of  the  jurymen  was  a  farmer.  It  was  to  their  interest 
to  make  an  example  of  "Hen"  Titer;  but  "Hen"  would 
say  nothing  but:  "Wait  till  Id  (Ed  was  his  law 
yer)  gits  at  thim.  He  is  the  bye  (boy)  that  will  make 
thim  furgit  their  own  grandmithers."  And  he  did.  The 
picture  that  Ed  drew  of  the  poor  Titer  children  crying  for 
their  milk  while  that  monster,  Crumley,  held  in  durance 
vile  "Hen's"  cow  was  one  of  the  most  pathetic  appeals  I 
have  ever  heard.  I  cried — I  couldn't  help  it.  I  felt  ex 
cused,  though,  for  every  juryman  was  doing  the  same 
thing.  Verdict :  Crumley  was  fined  $5  and  costs  for 
taking  up  the  cow. 

While  in  New  York  I  used  occasionally  to  attend  court 
to  hear  the  lawyers  argue  cases.  What  I  noticed  of  most 
common  occurrence  was  that  if  a  lawyer  knew  but  little 
law  he  would  devote  much  time  telling  the  judge  "I 
object,"  and  if  the  judge  would  overrule  he  would  then 
"note  an  exception,"  in  the  hopes  that  when  somebody 
higher  up  who  did  know  the  law,  would  by  some  chance 
find  that  his  "objections"  were  well  taken  and  the  decision 
of  the  judge  reversed.  At  any  rate,  I  would  have  Bennie 
"object"  from  start  to  finish  in  this  trial.  We  would  de 
lay  everything  we  could.  Bennie  knew  a  good  deal  but 
nothing  he  knew  was  truer  than  that  "If  you  have  a  poor 
case  delay.  Delay  helps  the  man  who  has  no  case,  and 
often  hurts  the  one  with  the  best  case."  Yes,  we  would 
delay — that  is,  we  thought  we  would  delay,  but  the  judge 
wasn't  that  kind  of  a  iudge.  Bennie  told  me  that  Old 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  183 

Shy  lock  always  loaned  this  judge  all  the  money  he 
needed,  and  as  he  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  at  the  taverns 
in  the  different  towns  where  he  held  court,  he  must  have 
needed  a  considerable.  It  always  occurred  to  me  that 
who  ever  had  the  contract  for  furnishing  the  fuel  for  that 
judge's  nose,  need  not  look  for  many  other  contracts,  but 
I  used  to  feel  sorry  for  the  man  who  had  to  pay  for  this 
contract,  until  Bennie  told  me  he  thought  old  "Shy"  paid 
most  of  it.  No,  we  did  not  delay.  The  trial  was  pushed 
faster  than  any  trial  had  ever  before  been  pushed  in  the 
county. 

The  opening  day  was  almost  like  a  county  fair.  My 
father  was  well  known  for  a  long  distance  around  High- 
mount,  and  while  everybody  had  respected  him  in  his 
prosperous  days,  it  was  curiosity  rather  than  respect 
which  brought  them  together  at  the  trial. 

The  twelve  men  were  soon  impaneled — whenever 
Bennie  suggested  a  man  of  any  intelligence  one  of  the 
other  lawyers  would  object.  "Objection  sustained;"  and 
when  on  the  other  hand,  Shy's  lawyer  would  name  some 
ignorant  fellow  Bennie  would  object.  "Objection  over 
ruled,"  then  the  "gavel"  would  fall.  Well,  Bennie  may 
have  been  too  sarcastic,  but  he  spoke  of  it  as  a  "typical 
American  jury."  I  cannot  tell  my  readers  of  the  outside 
world  what  this  jury  looked  like,  as  they  would  only 
know  by  some  comparison,  and  I  can  think  of  nothing 
with  which  to  compare  it.  While  as  for  those  of  my  little 
inside  world,  I  need  not  tell  them,  for  they  were  all  there 
and  know  for  themselves. 

Sister  Anna  told  me  that  she  saw  two  of  the  men  who 
had  offered  to  buy  our  farm.  She  pointed  them  out  to 
me.  I  watched  them,  and  saw  them  standing  near  the 
jury  box.  They  would  say  something  to  nearly  every  one 
of  the  jurors  as  they  would  walk  up  to  take  their  seats. 


184  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

I  told  Bennie  to  object,  but  he  did  it  so  weak- voiced  that 
I  don't  think  the  judge  heard  him.  At  any  rate,  he  said 
nothing-  and  the  men  continued  to  smile  at  and  talk  to  the 
jurors. 

Country  trials  are  much  like  those  in  the  city — they  are 
long  or  short  as  the  purse  is  long  or  short. 

Shylock  having  four  lawyers  on  his  side  meant  a  trial 
long  enough  for  each  one  to  earn  his  money. 

As  for  Bennie,  he  was  not  taken  into  account.  He 
would  have  to  stay  as  long  as  the  four  chose  to  keep  him. 

The  trial  was  on  its  second  day — nothing  had  been 
done  further  than  selecting  the  jury,  and  the  case  opened 
by  the  leader  of  Shylock's  four  law-yers. 

He  said  nothing  about  the  case.  He  spent  the 
whole  two  hours  of  his  speech  in  telling  the  "intelligent" 
jury  what  he  knew  about  Blackstone  and  the  principles  of 
law  and  jurisprudence.  Those  of  them  who  were  awake 
at  the  time  he  finished  seemed  greatly  pleased,  whether 
nith  the  speech  or  that  it  had  closed  I  never  could  tell. 

The  next  lawyer  told  the  jury  what  he  knew  of  the 
obligation  of  debtor  to  creditor,  and  cited  a  number  of 
cases  beginning  at  Hasdrubal  and  running  on  down 
through  past  Xapoleon  and  \Yellington.  The  other  two 
lawyers  followed  in  the  same  line  of  argument. 

The  trial  had  so  far  been  conducted  without  any  sem 
blance  of  law.  Bennie  had  "objected,"'  "taken  excep 
tions,"  was  overruled,  sat  upon,  laughed  at  by  the  Court 
until  our  side  seemed  in  a  desperate  situation. 

"May  it  please  the  Court,"  I  began,  after  the  four  law 
yers  had  all  made  their  speeches.  I  could  get  no  further 
for  "Hear!  Hear!"  from  all  parts  of  the  court  room, 
drowned  even  the  raps  of  the  old  judge. 

Finally,  when  the  room  was  again  silent,  I  continued : 

"If  your  honor  please,  and  the  four  \vorthy  gentlemen 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  185 

who  have  spoken  so  learnedly  ck>  not  object,  I  would  ask 
that  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  a  few  words  to  help  our 
one  lone  counsellor." 

The  judge  smiled,  the  four  lawyers  said  it  was  entirely 
no  difference  to  them.  So  it  was  agreed  that  I  might 
speak  in  place  of  Bennie.  Father  urged  me  not  to  take 
so  foolhardy  a  risk,  that  while  I  might  be  heard  further 
than  Bennie,  I  had  no  knowledge  of  the  law. 

At  this  I  whispered  to  him,  "neither  has  the  jury."  I 
had  dressed  for  the  occasion.  I  laid  my  city  suit  away, 
and  donned  one  of  my  own  tailor's.  The  very  novelty  of 
the  situation  aided  me.  The  court  room  was  packed  with 
people,  most  of  whom  had  known  me  from  childhood.  I 
was  all  alone.  Against  me  was  the  judge,  and  four  of  the 
best  lawyers  in  the  county  had  spoken  to  a  jury  o-f  their 
own  selection.  As  is  often  the  case,  in  their  anxiety  to 
get  everything,  they  had  gotten  too  much.  I  knew  sev 
eral  of  the  jury.  Some  of  them  were  under  obligations 
to  my  father ;  two  or  three  of  the  others  were  sons  of  men 
who  had  once  been  in  good  circumstances,  but  had  lost 
their  all  in  almost  similar  cases  with  ours.  Especially  was 
this  true  of  the  foreman.  When  a  young  man  his  future 
was  a  bright  one,  but  a  suit  at  court,  quite  similar  to  this 
one  of  ours,  had  swept  away  every  vestige  of  their  home. 
His  father  died  from  grief,  and  he  had  never  recovered 
his  spirits  enough  to  get  above  the  life  of  a  common 
laborer. 

Again  the  four  lawyers  in  their  effort  to  show  their 
legal  knowledge,  had  all  talked  over  the  heads  of  these 
jurymen.  I  knew  that,  while  I  might  not  be  versed  in 
the  law,  I  could  reach  these  men  through  a  better  chan 
nel — one  that  they  knew  more  about — the  arrogance  of 
the  rich  and  the  ills  of  poverty.  I  began,  in  slow,  meas 
ured  sentences : 


1 86  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

"Your  honor  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you  see  before 
you  a  boy  with  no  knowledge  of  the  law.  You  have 
known  me  from  childhood.  You  know  the  advantages  I 
have  had  and  know  that  I  am  not  armed  to  fight  this 
unequal  battle  with  the  giants  of  the  bar ;  but,  gentlemen 
of  the  jury,  when  a  boy  is  fighting  for  the  gray  haired 
father  and  mother  whose  lives  he  prizes  far  above  his 
own,  then  he  is  armed  with  a  weapon  against  which  the 
sharp  blade  of  legal  learning  has  no  force. 

"You  have  been  most  ably  told  by  these  four  giants  of 
the  bar  the  meaning  of  words,  the  certain  fine  turns  which 
can  be  made  with  words.  Aye,  gentlemen,  some  of  us 
know  too  well  how  that  words  can  be  turned  to  our  de 
stroying.  Who  knows  better  their  uses  than  the  money 
lender?  He  seeks  out  his  victim,  who  is  a  man  in  pros 
perous  condition.  He  throws  around  him  a  spell  of  low, 
sweet-sounding  words  and  urges  him  to  accept  money 
at  a  fair  rate  of  interest.  Once  the  spell  is  around  the 
victim,  and  no  power  on  earth  can  break  it.  He  is  led 
on  and  still  further  on.  As  the  bonds  become  more 
firmly  tightened,  the  rate  of  interest  increases.  But,  gen 
tlemen,  this  Shylock  knows  when  to  stop  the  use  of  soft 
words.  It  is  when  he  has  in  his  grasp  the  victim.  His 
words  now  change — their  soft,  flute-like  tones  become 
more  terrible  than  those  of  the  thunder.  The  poor  victim 
fights  on  and  on  the  unequal  battle,  but  he  seldom  wins. 
The  struggle  often  ends  with  not  only  his  fortune  gone, 
but  his  life.  The  Shylock  looks  upon  his  death  struggle, 
and  with  his  coffers  swelled  out  with  the  hard-earned 
dollars  of  his  victim,  says  to  the  widow  and  orphaned 
children  :  'I  will  rent  you  the  homestead  cheap!' ':  (This, 
I  saw,  had  its  effect  on  the  foreman,  who  seemed  to  catch 
every  phase  of  my  meaning.)  "The  work  of  the  modern 
Shvlock  does  not  end  with  the  death  of  his  victim.  It 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  187 

often  follows  on  down  through  to  his  children,  changing 
their  whole  lives,  and  making  them  slaves  where  they 
should  be  masters." 

Up  to  this  point  the  lawyers  had  attempted  many  times 
to  stop  me,  but  the  more  they  opposed,  the  more  fire  I 
threw  into  my  pleading.  I  saw  I  had  the  jury  nearly 
all  with  me,  and  I  would  turn  in  another  direction. 

"Who  is  the  Shylock  and  who  the  victim  in  this  case? 
The  wrecked  homes  of  the  one  are  all  over  our  country — 
the  kind  acts  of  the  other  are  known  to  all  who  have 
ever  needed  a  helping  hand.  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  it 
is  for  you  to  say  if  another  home  shall  mark  the  trail 
of  Shylock !  It  may  not  be  known  to  you  all  that  this 
trial  was  timed  for  a  purpose.  Had  it  been  deferred, 
as  was  promised,  Shylock  would  have  had  his  money  and 
his  interest ;  but  that  was  not  what  he  wanted.  That  was 
not  for  what  he  had  used  soft  words.  Gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  what  he  wanted  was  the  very  roof  that  covers  our 
heads.  Shall  he  have  that  roof?" 

"No,  no!"  from  all  parts  of  the  room.  The  judge 
stands  up  to  rap  order:  the  four  lawyers  turn  uneasily 
in  their  seats ;  old  Shylock  is  out  in  the  vestibule  walking 
back  and  forth,  pale  and  nervous;  several  of  the  jury  are 
wiping  their  eyes. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I  hold  in  my  hand  the  proof 
of  most  glaring  usury  on  the  part  of  Shylock.  I  may 
not  know  all  the  fine  turns  of  legal  wording,  but  I  do 
know  that  usury  is  a  very  grave  offense."  I  had  said 
enough,  and  had  but  to  close.  "And  now,  gentlemen  of 
the  jury,  friends  and  neighbors,  I  have  done.  I  have 
told  you  no  law.  i  know  no  law.  I  do  know,  however, 
that  if  Shylock  adds  another  victim  to  his  number  this 
day  that  a  grave  injustice  will  be  done  to  an  honest  man." 

The  court-room  was  in  an  uproar,  and  for  many  min- 


1 88  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

utes  the  judge  could  not  be  heard.  He  charged  the  jury, 
but  they  seemed  not  to  hear  him.  They  were  sent  out, 
and  soon  returned  with  a  verdict  in  favor  of  my  father. 
How  or  on  what  grounds  they  could  have  done  so,  no 
one  knew,  nor  could  they  explain  it ;  but,  as  Bennie  said, 
they  were  a  "typical  American"  jury. 

Friends  gathered  around  and  warmly  congratulated 
me.  Father  and  mother  embraced  me  and  wept.  But 
imagine  my  wonder  and  surprise  when  before  me  stood 
Bill  and  Mr.  DeHertbern. 

"Ruben,  nothing  in  the  world  can  now  stand  between 
you  and  the  law.  You  need  not  borrow  nor  accept  a 
gift,  for  you  are  in  your  own  right  a  rich  man.  Our 
expert  reports  the  true  value  of  your  farm,  and  I  am  pre 
pared  to  close  the  matter  at  once."  And  that  very  clay 
Bennie  drew  the  papers. 

We  were  to  receive  a  certain  sum  in  cash,  which  seemed 
in  itself  several  fortunes.  We  were  to  receive  another 
amount  in  certificates  in  the  oil  company,  and  a  further 
royalty  per  barrel  for  all  the  oil  taken  from  the  property. 
The  next  day  I  sent  for  old  Shylock,  and  when  we  had 
counted  the  just  amount  due  him,  Mr.  DeHertbern  gave 
him  a  check  in  full  payment.  It  took  only  a  very  small 
part  of  the  cash  due  us.  The  old  man  for  once  in  his  life 
wept.  Bennie  thought  it  was  for  joy  at  receiving  any 
thing,  after  the  verdict  of  the  "typical,"  etc. 

It  was  a  happy  reunion  at  our  old  home  that  night. 
Bill  and  his  mother  were  there,  and  Mr.  DeHertbern  was 
to  stay  over  to  look  at  the  oil  property.  I  was  most 
curious  to  know  how  Bill  and  Mr.  DeHertbern  had 
reached  there  just  at  that  time.  Bill  told  me  that  his 
mother,  who  had  been  West,  reached  home  a  day  or  two 
before  the  trial.  She  wrote  at  once  and  told  him  the 
serious  trouble  we  were  in,  and  how  that  nothing  could 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  189 

save  our  home.  ''Oh,  how  I  wish  we  could  help  them !" 
she  wrote.  Well,  when  Bill  got  the  letter  he  showed  it 
to  Air.  DeHertbern.  They  found  that  by  starting  at  once 
they  could  catch  the  stage  in  time.  They  reached  the 
court-room  just  as  I  was  beginning  my  speech,  and  I  was 
greatly  pleased  to  know  that  they  had  heard  it,  for  when 
one  does  himself  fair  credit  one  likes  to  have  his  friends 
hear  him. 

It  was  a  most  joyous  week  that  followed  the  end  of 
the  trial.  From  sorrow  to  joy,  from  threatened  poverty 
to  riches  beyond  the  dream  of — to  me — Croesus.  Success 
makes  many  friends.  Wherever  I  went,  I  was  met  with 
congratulations,  both  on  the  result  of  the  trial  and  my 
change  from  penury  to  wealth.  Possibly  nothing  that 
had  ever  occurred  in  Highmont  created  so  great  a  sensa 
tion  as  our  trial.  I  have  made  many  speeches  since  that 
day.  I  have  spoken  in  the  highest  courts  of  the  land, 
and  before  the  most  learned  judges;  but  the  one  great 
speech  of  my  life  was  that  I  made  when  an  unlearned 
boy  before  an  ignorant  jury  in  a  mountain  village  court 
room.  That  speech  is  talked  of  to  this  day  among  the 
people  of  Highmont.  Their  good  opinion  is  sweeter  to 
my  heart  than  the  applause  of  a  nation. 

Mr.  DeHertbern  remained  two  days.  He  drove  over 
to  the  Darnell  farm  with  his  expert,  and  was  greatly 
pleased  with  the  prospect.  \Vork  was  at  once  begun  on 
its  development,  and  it  proved  a  success  far  beyond  their 
anticipations.  The  wells  are  still  producing,  and  our 
royalty  turns  in  to  Sister  Anna  and  me  a  large  yearly 
income. 

On  the  day  of  my  arrival  from  New  York  almost  the 
first  person  I  met  was  a  poor  widow  whose  daughter 
Maggie  had  run  away  from  home  four  years  before. 
This  poor  mother  had  never  heard  from  her  child  in  all 


190 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


this  time.  She  had  hoped  on  that  Maggie  would  return, 
or  that  she  would  send  some  word  to  tell  her  that 
she  was  yet  alive.  "Oh,  Mr.  Ruben !  have  you  seen, 
in  the  great  city,  my  little  Maggie?  Nobody  has  ever 
seen  her.  My  heart  is  breaking,  thinking  of  her.  Oh, 
she  must  come  back  to  me  some  time !  She  was  all  I  had 
in  the  world.  The  life  of  the  very  poor  has  little  joy 
in  it,  but  when  I  had  my  child  with  me  I  did  not  think 
of  poverty.  I  thanked  the  Lord  and  was  happy;  but 
when  she  went  away  without  a  word  to  me,  I  have  never 
seen  a  happy  moment  since.  Mr.  Ruben,  I  did  hope  you 
might  have  seen  her,  and  that  you  could  have  told  her 
how  her  poor  old  mother  is  always  waiting  for  her  to 
come  back." 

The  sorrow  and  trouble  of  others  affect  me  deeply.  If 
I  can  speak  a  word  of  cheer  or  help  them  in  their  grief, 
I  always  try  to  do  so ;  but  I  could  do  nothing  for  this  poor 
woman.  Nothing  I  could  do  or  say  would  bring  Maggie 
home  to  her  mother,,  and  nothing  but  Maggie's  return 
could  lift  the  burden  from  her  lonely  life.  Before  I  re 
turned  to  the  city,  Sister  Anna  had  promised  to  quietly 
see  that  this  poor  woman  should  never  want  for  any 
thing. 

Pauline  and  Evelyn  May  never  got  tired  listening  to 
my  story  of  Helen.  They  would  ask  over  and  over : 
"Brother  Ruben,  tell  us  again  about  Helen.  Will  she 
some  time  come  to  see  us?  Wouldn't  we  have  fun !  We 
would  let  her  paddle  in  the  little  brook,  and  ride  on  the 
big  wagon,  and — and — 

"Yes,"  broke  in  Evelyn  May,  "and  get  stinged  with 
the  bees !" 

"Oh,  wouldn't  it  be  fun !  Brother  Ruben,,  won't  you 
bring-  her  to  see  us  some  time?" 

"Yes,  if  her  mamma  will  let  her  come  I  will  bring  her : 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  191 

but  she  is  always  afraid  Helen  will  get  hurt,  and  is  very 
careful  of  her." 

''Why,  Brother  Ruben,  she  mustn't  be  'fraid  if  she  is 
with  you.  You  never  will  let  her  get  hurt !"  And  they 
never  ceased  planning  what  they  would  do  when  Helen 
came.  Not  for  a  moment  could  they  be  made  to  think 
she  might  not  come. 

As  soon  as  I  was  no  longer  needed  at  home,  I  returned 
to  New  York ;  as  now,  with  nothing  to  prevent,  I  would' 
begin  my  cherished  study  of  the  law. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

They  buy  their  music  as  they  zvould  their  coal,  weighing 
it  out  on  the  same  heavy  scale.  In  Europe  music 
is  a  pleasure — in  America  it  is  a  commodity. 

The  day  Edward  DeHertbern  reached  the  other  side 
he  sent  a  cablegram  and  a  telecablegram  on  his  safe  ar 
rival  in  Milan,  Italy.  Wire  food  is  never  satisfying  to 
the  mind,  and  it  was  only  when  I  received  a  letter  from 
him  that  I  was  at  all  relieved  from  the  strain  of  very 
natural  worry. 

Edward  \vrote:  "I  have  seen  the  Professor.  My 
translation  of  his  letter  was  correct.  I  have  met  Lord 
and  Lady  Alleyn,  who  do  not  recognize  me  as  the  em 
barrassed  youth  they  met  in  the  tomb.  They  know  me 
only  as  Count  Drasco's  friend.  They  are  almost  distract 
ed  with  grief,  as  what  the  old  Egyptologist  told  me  is 
true.  Their  daughter  was  stolen  from  them  by  a  band 
of  bandits.  Lord  Alleyn  has  offered  a  large  ransom,  but 
word  was  sent  him  that,  'We  will  name  the  ransom  in 
due  time.' 

"In  time  of  action  Professor  Blake  is  a  very  child.  He 
has  no  plan,  can  suggest  no  way  by  which  we  can  be 
of  service  to  the  stricken  father  and  mother  in  their 
grief.  I  have  found  my  friend,  Count  Drasco,  and  have 
told  him  my  story.  This  man  when  in  New  York  had 
seemed  so  gentle — almost  timid,  that  I  feared  he  would 
be  of  small  service  in  time  of  strong,  quick  action ;  but, 

192 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  793 

Ruben,  I  had  never  before  been  so  mistaken  in  my  esti 
mate  of  a  man  as  I  had  been  in  the  Count.  The  favorite 
of  the  drawing-room,  the  gentle-mannered  man  of 
fashion,  became  a  very  giant  in  time  of  need.  He  entered 
at  once  with  me  in  devising  a  means  of  rescuing  Miss 
Alleyn.  Said  he :  'This  is  a  most  delicate  hazard.  We 
dare  use  no  force,  and  yet  must  needs  be  prepared  to 
fight  on  occasion.  If  she  be  in  the  power  of  the  bandits, 
they,  by  long  custom,  have  learned  all  the  ways  of  at 
tempted  rescue.  If  force  sufficient  be  sent,  these  men, 
who  have  lost  all  human  feeling  by  long  years  of  preying 
on  their  fellow  men,  would  kill  her  rather  than  that  she 
be  taken.  Only  by  means  of  which  these  bandits  know 
nothing  can  we  hope  to  succeed.  We  will  dress  as  be 
comes  most  humble  strolling  minstrels.  Ah !  but  there 
wre  will  fail.  You  Americans  are  not  musical.  You 
have,  you  all  claim,  a  great  love  for  music ;  but  you  do 
not  know  true  music.  The  strolling  minstrel  of  our 
mountains  often  has  more  music  in  him  than  you  will 
find  in  one  of  your  so-called  music  schools.  When  I  was 
in  your  country  I  heard  much  that  pleased,  but  all  the 
musicians  were  foreigners.  None  of  your  ladies  sang. 
I  heard  no  voice  in  your  drawing-rooms  save  that  of  the 
professional  who  sang  for  pay.  No,  this  plan  will  not 
do ;  although  it  is  the  best  that  could  be  devised  were  you 
a  singer,  or  could  play  the  guitar.' 

"Ruben,  I  felt  the  criticism  most  keenly.  America  is 
not  advancing  in  music.  Our  people  feel  that  it  is  taking 
a  lowly  position  to  play  or  sing  for  their  guests.  They 
buy  their  music  as  they  would  their  coal,  weighing  it 
out  on  the  same  heavy  scale.  In  Europe  music  is  a 
pleasure — in  America  it  is  a  commodity.  I  could  but 
think  of  the  long  months — yes,  even  years — I  had  spent 
trying  to  learn  music,  for  I  love  it  as  few  Italians  love  it; 


194  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

and  when  I  thought  of  my  old  music  teacher,  Professor 
Frenchelli,  and  how  that  he  used  to  tell  me  that  my 
Italian  accent  was  perfect,  and  that  my  voice  was  as  pure 
as  an  Italian  minstrel,  I  could  not  help  saying: 

"  'Count,  I  have  studied  your  music,  and  play  some 
what  on  the  guitar.'  He  smiled,  and  reached  me  that 
instrument  without  a  word.  The  moment  I  touched  the 
chords  he  was  all  animation,  and  when  I  sang  a  simple 
little  Italian  ballad  which  Professor  Frenchelli  always 
said  I  sang  well,  the  Count  was  almost  beside  himself 
with  pleasure. 

"  'It  is  the  way — the  very  best.  See !  our  voices  blend 
together  in  soft  minstrel  melody,  in  plaintive  song;'  and 
he  joined  me  in  the  ballad,  \vhich  he  knew.  I,  too,  was 
surprised  at  his  fine  voice. 

'  'I  will  not  be  so  critical,'  said  he,  'on  the  swordsman 
ship  of  America  until  I  have  seen  what  you  can  do  in 
sword  play.'  At  that  he  took  down  two  keen  blades  from 
where  they  hung  in  his  room,  and  handing  me  one,  took 
position  as  though  to  fence.  A  very  few  passes  con 
vinced  him  that  he  was  no  match  for  my  skill.  He  \vas 
even  more  delighted  than  he  was  at  my  voice. 

"'Perfect!     Perfect!' 

''  'But  what  is  the  good,'  I  asked,  'of  being  able  to  use 
a  sword,  if  we  dress  the  part  of  a  minstrel  ?  We  cannot 
go  armed,  as  a  minstrel  carries  no  weapon.'  He  took 
down  a  guitar  and  handed  it  to  me  to  examine. 

'  'What,'  asked  he,  'do  you  see  peculiar  about  this  in 
strument?'  I  took  it,  looked  it  over  carefully,  played 
upon  it,  returned  it  with,  'I  see  nothing  further  than  that 
it  has  a  peculiarly  formed  head,  and  that  the  back  of  the 
instrument  is  somewhat  differently  shaped ;  but  I  would 
not  have  noted  any  difference  had  you  not  called  my 
attention  to  it.' 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  195 

''See!'  said  he;  and  with  a  quick  movement  he  had 
grasped  the  peculiar  head  of  the  guitar  and  stood  in  front 
of  me,  armed  with  a  sword.  That  peculiar  head  was  a 
sword-hilt,  and  the  back  of  the  guitar  was  the  sheath. 

'  'No  one  would  suspect  this  innocent-looking  guitar 
as  an  instrument  of  death,  and  yet  you  see  the  blade  is 
a  perfect  sword/  So  great  was  my  surprise  that  I  could 
make  no  reply. 

'  'There  is  but  one  other  guitar  like  this,  and  it  is 
owned  by  a  man  who  is  my  enemy.  I  have  no  means  of 
gaining  possession  of  it,  as  he  prizes  it  above  money.  He 
thinks  his  the  only  one  of  the  kind  in  the  world.  He 
knows  nothing  of  this  one.' 

"While  I  knew  that  time  was  valuable,  I  also  felt  I 
must  gain  possession  of  that  other  instrument.  I  learned 
from  the  Count  who  owned  it.  I  left  him  and  went  direct 
to  our  Consul,  who,  I  was  surprised  to  find,  knew  my 
father  well.  He  was  a  young  man  about  my  own  age. 
His  face  and  frank  manner  made  me  feel  I  could  fully 
trust  him.  I  told  him  my  story.  He  entered  into  our 
plan  most  heartily,  and  when  I  spoke  of  the  other  instru 
ment  and  gave  him  the  name  of  the  owner,  he  smiled  and 
told  me  to  call  this  evening  and  he  would  have  something 
to  my  interest.  I  returned  to  the  home  of  the  Count  and 
found  he  had  secured  two  well-worn  minstrel  suits. 
Ruben,  could  you  see  me  as  I  sit  here  dressed  in  mine, 
you  would  not  know  me.  I  do  not  recognize  myself  in 
the  mirror.  The  Count  says,  'We  look  our  character.' 

"In  my  interview  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alleyn  this  fore 
noon  I  learned  as  much  of  the  particulars  of  the  abduc 
tion  of  their  daughter  as  they  could  give ;  as  nearly  as 
they  could  describe  the  place,  the  character  of  the  deep 
cut  or  pass  in  the  mountain  where  their  carriage  was 
stopped,  the  number  of  the  men,  their  dress,  and  how 


196  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

they  were  armed.  Much  was  vague  to  them,  as  it  was 
all  done  so  quickly  that  they  could  not  note  minutely  all 
the  circumstances. 

"What  had  impressed  them  more  than  anything  else 
was  the  character  of  the  leader.  They  described  him 
almost  exactly  as  the  old  Egyptologist  had  pictured  him 
to  me.  A  man  of  powerful  build,  with  a  face  that  showed 
no  mercy.  I  could  not  tell  them  the  full  depth  of 
interest  I  felt  in  their  daughter,  nor  that  I  was  about  to 
attempt  her  rescue,  but  I  did  counsel  them  to  make  no 
terms  until  they  again  heard  from  me.  I  have  said  noth 
ing  to  Professor  Blake  as  to  my  intentions.  He  would 
be  sure  to  do  or  say  that  which  might  frustrate  our  plans. 
I  have  given  your  name  and  address  to  the  Consul.  If 
anything  should  happen  to  me,  he  will  notify  you 
promptly. 

"Later.  I  have  been  again  to  the  Consul's.  How,  or 
in  what  manner,  he  would  not  inform  me,  but  he  has 
secured  the  guitar  which  I  so  much  coveted.  We  are 
almost  ready  to  start.  Just  now  when  I  described  the 
leader  of  the  bandits  to  the  Count  he  seemed  greatly 
moved. 

'  'Why,'  said  he,  'he  must  surely  be  Lougi  Amabilli,  on 
whose  head  the  Government  has  an  offer  of  25,000 
francs !  He  has  friends  all  through  the  mountains.  The 
reward  has  no  effect.  He  goes  and  comes  among  the 
villages,  and  no  one  interferes.  I  have  heard  say  he  is 
a  great  favorite,  as  he  spends  money  with  a  free  hand. 
His  sword  has  caused  many  deaths — they  cannot  be  called 
murders,  as  he  always  fights  fair.  Men  who  excel  are 
ever  credited  as  greater  than  they  are.  This  may  be  true 
with  Amabilli,  but  he  is  said  to  be  the  best  swordsman 
in  all  northern  Italy.' 

"Ruben,  this  was  not  pleasing  to  hear,  when  what  the 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  197 

old  seer  told  me  is  ever  running  in  my  mind.  If  you 
never  hear  from  me  again,  do  not  think  that  for  a  moment 
there  was  a  single  regret  for  what  I  am  about  to  at 
tempt " 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

"Gold!    A   mine  of  it  could  not  keep  you  behind  that 
iron  door!" 

"WAS   HE  AN   AMERICAN?    A   YOUNG   TOURIST 

FOUND  DEAD   FROil  A   SWORD  THRUST,    IN   MOUNTAIN   PASS 
NEAR  -          —  ,  ITALY  !" 

The  above  was  the  awful  headlines  in  a  newspaper  I 
bought  only  a  few  minutes  after  I  had  finished  reading1 
Edward's  letter.  The  account  was  written  in  the  most 
sensational  manner.  While  it  did  not  name  Edward,  it 
had  as  well  done  so.  The  name  was  all  that  was  want 
ing  to  convey  to  my  mind  that  it  was  indeed  my  friend. 
I  had  scarce  finished  the  account,  with  my  mind  filled 
with  awful  forebodings,  when  I  was  handed  a  message. 
It  was  from  the  Consul  in  Milan.  It  was  very  brief  — 
"Rumor  says  DeHertbern  assassinated;  investigating." 
There  was  no  longer  any  doubt.  Everything  pointed  to 
his  death.  Had  not  the  old  seer  as  much  as  said  he  would 
be  slain  in  a  mountain  pass?  Had  not  Edward  himself 
written  an  hour  before  setting  out  to  attempt  the  rescue 
of  his  queen  that  he  had  forebodings  of  ill  ?  I  would 
have  gone  at  once  to  Mr.  DeHertbern  and  told  him  all 
I  knew  had  I  thought  it  would  have  served  any  purpose. 
But  why,  I  argued,  should  I  cause  them  pain  when  I 
knew  absolutely  nothing,  however  real  that  nothing 
seemed  to  me? 


198 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  199 

I.) ut  to  follow  Edward  and  the  Count  on  their  perilous 
enterprise.  Two  youths,  clad  in  the  garb  of  small  mer 
chants,  might  have  been  seen  leaving  the  gates  of  Milan 
as  the  clock  in  a  neighboring  church  tower  was  striking 
the  hour  of  midnight.  They  would  start  at  this  unseemly 
time  that  they  might  be  well  on  their  way  toward  a  rail 
way  station  a  few  miles  out  from  Milan  by  morning,  the 
Count  arguing  that  it  would  not  be  wise  for  them  to  take 
the  train  at  Milan,  where  he  was  well  known,  and  by 
some  chance  might  be  recognized.  They  left  the  city 
unseen,  as  they  thought;  but  men  who  play  for  a  large 
stake  seldom  risk  a  chance  of  failure.  Since  the  moment 
of  Miss  Alleyn's  abduction  at  the  pass  in  the  mountains, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alleyn  had  been  under  the  eyes  of  one  or 
more  of  the  bandits.  No  one  came  to  see  them  but  these 
men  knew  of  it,  and  followed  that  one  back  to  his  or  her 
house  or  hotel.  Edward  had  been  to  see  them  twice, 
which  made  him  a  marked  man.  His  every  movement 
was  watched,  and  when,  at  midnight,  he  and  the  Count 
quietly  left  the  Count's  home,  they  were  as  quietly  fol 
lowed  by  a  cloaked  figure.  This  man  knewr  his  part  well, 
for  no  sooner  had  they  started  on  their  way  out  from  the 
city  than  he,  by  a  circuitous  run,  got  in  front  of  them, 
so  that  had  they  seen  him  they  would  not  have  thought 
anything  of  it.  He  reached  the  station  next  morning  be 
fore  Edward  and  the  Count,  who,  on  seeing  him,  took 
him  for  a  merchant  like  themselves.  He  soon  engaged 
them  in  conversation.  They  found  him  a  pleasant-spoken 
fellow,  though  not  at  all  intrusive,  and  by  the  time  the 
train  came  they  were  all  on  quite  friendly  terms.  He 
had  been  to  see  some  of  his  "customers,"  and  was  then 
on  his  way  back  to  Lecco  (which  was  the  end  of  the 
railway),  where  he  resided. 

"If,"  said  he,  "you  are  staying  any  time  in  our  city, 


200  MY    FRIEND    BILL. 

I  will  be  pleased  to  show  you  what  little  entertainment 
I  can.  It  is  not  much,  but  if  you  care  for  fine  old  wines, 
I  have  a  small  cellar  which  my  old  father  stocked  and 
left  to  me.  In  it  I  have  some  passably  fine  vintages." 

Now,  if  he  had  known  the  Count  and  all  his  tender 
points,  he  could  not  have  touched  one  so  close  to  his  heart 
as  that  of  a  well-stocked  wine  cellar,  especially  if  it 
smacked  of  great  age. 

"It  will  consume  no  time  at  all,"  said  he  to  Edward ; 
"besides,  I  am  always  looking  for  choice  old  wines  for 
my  own  cellar."  When  they  reached  Lecco  they  agreed 
that  if  he  would  call  for  them  at  the  inn  in  two  hours 
they  would  go  with  him. 

The  two  hours  were  not  idle  ones  for  the  Lecco  mer 
chant  ( ?).  He  hurried  to  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  where 
he  stopped  at  an  old  house  which  set  back  in  a  cluster  of 
thick-foliaged  trees.  The  house  was  spacious  and  the 
grounds  large.  He  was  greeted  by  the  keeper,  a  beetle- 
browed  man  of  possibly  fifty. 

"Well,  Barrone,  what's  the  lay  now  ?  Another  ransom 
looming  up  over  the  pass?  Has  the  father  of  the  girl 
come  down  handsome  yet?  No?  What's  up?  You 
said  that  was  to  be  a  'gold  mine.'  ' 

"Yes,  Colletti,  but  you  see  we  don't  know  how  much 
is  in  the  'mine.'  He  has  offered  'the  ransom  of  a  king,' 
but  we  have  not  investigated  his  'references'  yet.  Ha ! 
ha !  He  may  be  able  to  throw  in  a  few  thousand  more. 
We  have  let  him  know  that  we  will  'name  the  ransom  in 
due  time.'  But  I  am  wasting  precious  minutes.  In  less 
than  two  hours  I  will  drive  here  with  two  young  men. 
They  are  dressed  as  small  merchants,  but  I  don't  think 
either  of  them  could  sell  a  spool  of  thread.  But  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there.  I  have,  Colletti — remember,  / 
have — a  fine  old  wine  cellar,  filled  with  some  verv  choice 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  2OI 

and  very  old  vintages,  which  I  am  to  show  my  young 
friends.  Remember,  Colletti,  when  I  come  with  them  the 
cellar  is  mine,  and  you  are  in  charge  of  it." 

"Why,  Barrone,  there's  not  been  a  bottle  of  wine  in 
that  hole  for  years." 

"Well,  what's  the  odds  just  so  it  has  a  good,  strong 
door.  Colletti,  it  is  my  cellar  for  two  hours,  and  after 
that  it  is  yours,  and  if  you  don't  keep  a  good  watch  over 
its  lock  for  the  next  month — well,  I  shall  make  my  report 
and  you  will  wish  you  had  gone  to'  America  before  I  had 
occasion  to  use  your  cellar." 

''But  what  will  I  do  with  the  men,  Barrone?  I  can't 
keep  them  for  a  month !  It  has  been  a  long  while  since 
I  saw  the  color  of  your  gold ;  you  have  promised  me  many 
times  you  would  make  me  rich — rich  so  that  I  might  go 
to  America— but  instead  I  am  not  even  paid  to  look  after 
this  old  property!" 

"Ah !  but  Colletti,  we  have  never  had  so  rich  a  dove 
before.  It  will  make  us  all  rich,  and  we,  too,  may  go1  to 
America — may  have  to  go.  Ha  !  ha !" 

As  Barrone  drove  up  to  the  inn  with  an  old  carriage 
which  he  had  hired  for  the  occasion,  he  found  Edward 
and  the  Count  waiting  for  him. 

"I  was  somewhat  delayed,"  he  said,  "as  my  man  was 
away  with  the  carriage,  but  it  will  not  take  us  long  to 
drive  out.  You  will  find  my  old  home  somewhat  gone  to 
decay  from  its  former  grandeur ;  but  you  know  the  young 
men  to-day  have  not  that  care  for  home  which  their 
fathers  had." 

Not  for  one  moment  did  either  of  the  young  men  sus 
pect  treachery.  They  could  see  that  the  place  was  indeed 
gone  to  decay,  but  had  not  the  young  merchant  explained 
that  'the  young  men  of  to-day  have  not  the  care  for 
home  which  their  fathers  had'  ? 


202  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

He  called  to  Colletti :  "Here,  my  man,  hold  Caesar, 
and  see  that  he  does  not  get  away,  while  I  show  to  these 
young  merchants  my  wine  cellar.  Did  you  remove  all 
the  bottles  from  the  front,  for  the  new  crop  that  will 
soon  be  coming  in?  Yes?  'Tis  well."  Then  to  Ed 
ward  and  the  Count :  "Our  workmen  in  Lecco  are  like 
they  are  elsewhere,  I  suppose — of  little  value  unless  the 
master  is  about.  Colletti  is  getting  quite  worthless  since 
he  got  the  notion  of  going  to  America;  but  here  we  are. 
As  I  told  you,  it  is  a  very  old  cellar.  For  generations 
has  it  served  the  Barrones."  He  did  all  the  talking  now 
as  he  led  the  way.  "It  is  old,  but  note  how  strong  the 
door  is  built  into  the  masonry.  We  do  not  build  as  our 
forefathers  built.  See  those  bins  and  racks.  Those  I 
just  had  emptied,  and  the  wine  put  back  to  the  farther 
end.  Do  you  see  how  the  spiders  have  been  at  work? 
It  all  indicates  great  age.  Here  in  this  room  off  to  the 
left  is  where  I  keep  the  oldest  wanes — but,  there !  I  forgot 
the  key.  Here,  Colletti !  Colletti !  bring  me  the  key 
basket!  Colletti,  here!  Excuse  me  till  I  call  him;  he  is 
so  stupid — so  stupid — so  (bang!  goes  the  door,  and  the 
key  turns)  stupid.  Gentlemen,  make  yourselves  com 
fortable  ;  but  mind  you  do  not  drink  too  much  of  the  'old 
vintages.'  It  is  not  good  to  be  too  free  with  old  wine. 
I  will  have  your  friends,  the  Alleyns,  call  for  you  in  one 
month.  In  the  meantime  you  have  the  full  run  of  my 
cellar.  Colletti  will  see  that  you  do  not  get  hungry,  pro 
viding,  of  course,  you  shall  keep  him  supplied  with  purses. 
My  dear  friend,  the  Count,  I  shall  always  be  pleased  to 
keep  your  cellar  filled  with  my  choicest  wines.  Good 
bye,  my  dear  young  'merchants' !  While  I  leave  you  to 
enjoy  the  luxuries  of  my  old  vintages,  I  go  to  the  moun 
tains  to  call  upon  my  queen  of  beauty.  Adieux,  my 
stupid  young  merchants  !  Colletti,  look  to  your  guests  !" 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  203 

All  this  while  the  Count  and  Edward  were  indeed  stupe 
fied  with  horror  at  the  turn  of  affairs.  When  they  real 
ized  fully  the  situation,  they  ran  to  the  door,  or  heavy 
iron  grating-,  and  shook  it  with  all  their  strength,  but  they 
had  as  well  try  to  open  the  door  of  a  bank  safe  vault. 
As  Barrone  had  said,  "We  do  not  build  as  our  forefathers 
built." 

No  words  need  be  wasted  here  in  dwelling  upon  the 
feelings  of  the  Count  and  Edward  when  they  found  them 
selves  imprisoned  in  this  deep  cellar.  No  castle  prison 
could  have  been  more  secure.  They  took  the  dilapidated 
lamp  which  Barrone  had  set  down  when  he  went  for  the 
key,  and  with  it  examined  every  part  of  the  dungeon,  but 
no  hope  of  escape  could  they  find.  A  real  prison  had 
been  far  better,  for  often  secret  doors  and  passageways 
are  found  in  their  walls  or  floors ;  but  a  wine  cellar  would 
not  be  so  constructed  as  to  be  used  for  a  prison.  It  was 
only  the  fertile  mind  of  Barrone  that  conceived  the  use 
of  this  one  to  hold  the  two  young  men  while  he  and  his 
band  could  effect  a  settlement  with  Mr.  Alleyn.  The 
villain  would  not  kill  them  so  long  as  he  could  thus  keep 
them  out  of  the  way.  They  might  die  of  starvation,  but 
they  must  themselves  look  to  that,  as  Colletti  would  keep 
them  supplied  with  food.  Had  not  Barrone  told  them 
this  ? 

Barrone  having  given  orders  to  see  that  his  prisoners 
\vere  looked  after,  he  was  about  to  leave  when  Colletti 
called  to  him : 

"You  have  locked  the  iron  door — where  is  the  key?" 

"I  will  bring  the  key  in  one  month.  You  need  not  give 
yourself  any  thought  on  that  subject." 

"But  then,  suppose  it  be  learned  that  I  am  holding 
them  prisoners — what  will  become  of  me?" 

"Colletti,  it  must  not  be  learned.     No  one  ever  comes 


204  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

here,  so  no  one  but  you  will  know  they  are  enjoying  the 
run  of  my  wine  cellar.  Ha  !  ha  !" 

"Hold !  one  more  question.  How  am  I  to  get  them 
food?  I  am  kept  here  half-starved  myself." 

"That  is  not  my  concern.  Adieu,  Colletti.  Look  after 
your  two  young  merchants ;"  and  he  drove  away  with  a 
contented,  villainous  smile  on  his  rather  handsome  face. 

He  returned  to  the  inn  where  Edward  and  the  Count 
had  stopped,  and  said  he  had  been  sent  for  the  luggage 
of  the  two  young  men ;  that  they  had  concluded  to  walk 
on  to  the  next  village.  The  inn-keeper  protested  that 
they  had  not  paid  for  their  room  or  service,,  and  he  could 
not  give  up  their  luggage. 

"That  is  of  no  matter.  I  will  pay  that,  and  a  nice 
penny  to  the  pretty  maids  who  serve  you" — this  for  the 
ear  of  one  of  the  maids  who  stood  near.  The  inn-keeper 
was  about  to  send  for  their  luggage  when  a  man  standing 
near  called  him  to  one  side  and  asked : 

"Do  you  know  this  fellow  who  first  drives  away  with 
your  guests  and  then  returns  for  their  belongings  without 
so  much  as  a  written  order?  I  like  not  the  looks  of  this 
fellow.  There  is  that  about  his  face  that  will  be  worth 
your  careful  watch.  Tell  him  you  cannot  give  the  lug 
gage,  and  if  all  is  well  he  will  quickly  overtake  the  young 
men,  who  will  return  for  it  very  shortly." 

"You  judge  wisely.  He  cannot  take  it,  even  though 
he  now  bring  an  order."  Then  to  Barrone :  "The  lug 
gage  I  will  keep.  Tell  the  young  men  that  they  alone 
may  have  it." 

Barrone  was  very  angry.  He  went  away  declaring 
that  he  would  soon  return  with  the  young  merchants,  who 
would  be  much  annoyed  at  the  inn-keeper's  scant  hospi 
tality — but  he  did  not  return.  He  found  the  owner  of 
the  carriage,  whom  he  hired  to  take  him  to  the  next  town, 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  205 

and   from  there  he  set  out  on  his  long  journey  to   the 

rendezvous  of  the  bandits. 

It  was  late  the  next  morning  before  Colletti  came  to 

the  door  of  the  "prison,"  and  then  only  after  the  two  had 

called  so  loudly  that  he  feared  they  might  be  heard  by 

some  passerby. 

"Why  all  this   fuss  and  bother?     If  you   continue   to 

make  so  loud  an  outcry,  I  shall  leave  you  to  call  to  the 

wind/' 

"You  would  not  starve  us  like  rats  in  a  cage,  would 

you?" 

"Not  if  the  rats  had  that  about  them  which  might  pay 

for  their  keep,"  said  Colletti,  venturing  to  see  if  they  had 

any  of  the  purses  Barrone  had  spoken  about. 

"Here,"  said  the  Count,  "take  this  and  get  us  of  the 

best  you  can  buy.     Go  at  once,  for  we  are  weak  with 

hunger.     But,  hold !  first  get  us  water — gallons  of  water 

— water  !     We  are  famishing  of  thirst !" 

They  had  been  shut  in  for  nearly  a  day,  with  no  food, 
and  a  long,  careful  search  had  not  discovered  a  single 
drop  of  wine  in  this  once  well-stored  cellar.  Colletti's 
face  took  on  a  new  look  when  he  saw  the  gold  piece  taken 
from  a  well-filled  purse.  Gold — gold !  How  it  did  make 
his  heart  glad  to  see  it.  He  had  long  served  for  gold 
which  he  had  never  gotten.  It  might  be  paid  to  him 
some  time,  but  that  time  might  never  come.  When  he 
returned  with  the  food  and  water  he  told  them  they 
would  not  need  to  call  to  him  ;  that  he  would  come  often 
tv~>  see  after  their  wants.  His  face  wore  as  near  a  pleasant 
look  as  it  could,  after  long  years  of  frowns  and  scowls. 
His  manner  gave  them  courage  to  beg  of  him  to  release 
them.  "I  could  not  if  I  wished,  as  Barrone  took  with  him 
the  key ;  but  old  Colletti  is  not  the  man  to  betray  a  trust. 
They  often  leave  me  to  go  hungry,  or  work,  but  they 


2o6  MY    FRIEND    BILL. 

know  if  once  they  place  confidence  in  me  I  will  honor 
it.  Xo,  you  may  have  no  hope  of  escape  before  one 
month ;  at  the  end  of  that  time  you  will  be  released  if  the 
captive  maiden  is  yet  alive  and  the  ransom  is  paid.  Some 
times  maidens  die  of  grief  before  they  are  ransomed." 

How  this  thought  wrung  Edward's  heart !  While  he 
was  helpless  behind  iron  grating  his  "queen"  might  die 
of  grief!  Why  had  he  been  so  really  stupid  to  be  thus 
duped  by  a  stranger !  That  evening  they  tried  to  engage 
their  keeper  in  conversation,  but  he  would  not  talk,  save 
when  he  felt  he  might  wring  gold  from  them.  It  is  said 
that  no  armor  of  mail  was  ever  made  that  did  not  have 
in  it  some  weak  link,  through  which  the  well-aimed  arrow 
might  not  pierce.  To  find  that  weak  link  was  now  their 
only  hope.  "Gold?"  Xo,  they  had  tried  to  buy  their 
way  out  to  no  avail. 

"I  love  gold,"  said  he;  "but  they  will  give  me  gold, 
when  once  they  get  the  ransom." 

Had  not  Barrone  spoken  of  America  ?  Ah !  that  may 
be  the  one  weak  link.  Colletti  had  risen  to  go  from  the 
door-stoop,  where  he  had  been  sitting  after  bringing  them 
their  supper. 

"Have  you  ever  been  to  America?"  asked  Edward. 
This  hardened  villain's  whole  being  seemed  to  change  at 
that  simple  question.  He  sat  down  again,  and  where  be 
fore  he  had  spoken  in  monosyllables  or  short,  sullen  sen 
tences,  he  now  became  almost  a  fountain  of  words.  He 
had  not  been.  He  had  always  wanted  to  go.  He  had 
friends  there  who  were  writing  to  him  to  come.  Amer 
ica  !  America !  would  he  ever  see  that  land  ? 

"I  know  many  of  your  people  in  America,"  said  Ed 
ward.  "It  was  from  them  I  learned  your  beautiful  lan 
guage.  Some  of  them  are  poor ;  I  have  often  helped 
them  in  their  poverty ;"  and  thinking  he  might  be  touched 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


207 


by  gratitude  for  kindness  shown  to  his  people,  Edward 
told  of  how  he  had  once  gone  to  see  a  family  who  had  a 
crippled  child,  a  boy  of  live  years.  "When  I  saw  this 
poor  little  fellow  trying  to  walk  and  crying  because  he 
could  not,  my  heart  went  out  to  him.  I  put  him  under 
the  care  of  one  of  our  best  surgeons,  and  had  the  grati 
fication  of  seeing  him  walk  as  well  as  any  of  his  play 
fellows.  He  was,  oh,  so  happy !  'I  wish  I  could  pay 
you  for  my  walking,'  he  would  say ;  'and  when  my  grand 
papa  comes  I  will.  My  grandpapa  will  be  very  rich  some 
time.  He  lives  away  off  in  Italy!'  The  little  fellow 
would  often  run  to  me,  and  always  say,  'When  my  grand 
papa  comes  I  will  pay  you.' ): 

Colletti  drank  in  every  word  of  Edward's  story,  and 
when  it  was  finished,  seemed  to  be  stupefied  with  wonder. 
"Oh!"  said  he,  "tell  me  the  name  of  that  child — that  little 
crippled  boy.  It  cannot  be — it  cannot  be!  So  strange! 
So  strange !"  and  he  was  so  absorbed  that  Edward  had 
almost  to  arouse  him. 

"His  name,"  said  Edward,  "was  Tony  Colletti — the  son 
of  a  stone-carver  of  the  same  name." 

The  keeper  was  almost  like  a  man  out  of  his  mind. 
"Are  you  the  good  young  man  they  wrote  about  who  had 
done  so  much  for  mine  in  that  far-off  America?  Oh! 
what  have  I  clone ! — what  have  I  done !  Is  this  how  I 
am  repaying  that  kindness  ?  How  I  had  often  wished 
to  go  to  America  to  hunt  you  out  and  thank  you — to  bless 
you  for  what  you  had  done!  I  must  not  stay  here  a 
minute — I  will  break  down  the  door !  Gold — a  mine  of 
it — could  not  keep  you  behind  that  iron  door !"  And  in 
less  than  an  hour  he  had  battered  the  door  off  its  hinges, 
ar)d  Edward  and  the  Count  breathed  the  free  air  again. 

"I  have  often  heard  our  air  praised,"  said  the  Count; 
"but  never  before  have  I  fully  felt  how  it  merited  it!" 


208  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

Every  minute  was  now  precious ;  but  Edward  knew 
that  the  only  safety  for  Colletti  \vas  to  get  him  away  and 
out  of  the  country,  for  death  is  Italian  pay  for  betrayal 
of  trust.  "You  have,"  said  Edward  to  the  keeper,  "little 
time  to  waste  in  Italy.  You  must  go  at  once  to  Milan, 
from  thence  to  Genoa,  where  you  can  take  a  steamer  to 
New  York.  There  is  all  the  gold  you  will  need — and 
some  to  spare  when  you  reach  that  city.  If  I  shall  come 
out  of  this  and  get  back  to  New  York,  I  will  see  that 
you  shall  never  be  wanting  a  friend." 

Colletti  would  have  detained  them  with  profusions  of 
gratitude.  He  would  even  risk  his  life  to  go  with  them 
and  point  out  the  intricate  way  to  the  rendezvous  of  the 
bandits,  but  they  would  not  accept  his  offer.  He  then 
described  as  minutely  as  he  could  the  way,  but  the  many 
towns  and  villages  he  named  only  confused  them.  "It 
will  take  you  four  days  to  reach  the  mountain  pass,  and 
the  place  where  the  maiden  is  held  is  a  half-day's  walk 
to  the  northwest.  Should  you  gain  the  camp  and  rescue 
the  maiden,  there  is  another  way  out  from  it  to  the  south 
west  along  a  beautiful  valley.  This  is  the  safer  way,  as 
it  leads  into  a  country  where  the  bandits  have  not  the 
influence  or  the  friends  they  have  over  the  other  course. 
Then  over  this  course  they  will  not  look  for  you,  as  no 
one  knows  of  it  but  their  own  people."  He  gave  them 
much  else  of  useful  direction. 

When  they  returned  to  the  inn  they  learned  how  nearly 
they  had  lost  their  means  of  reaching  the  camp  of  the 
bandits,  and  were  so  grateful  to  the  inn-keeper  that  they 
paid  him  for  all  the  time  they  had  spent  in  the  wine 
cellar,  and  left  besides  a  pretty  penny  for  each  of  the 
maids,  who  curtsied  their  thanks  as  the  two  young  men 
left,  still  in  their  merchants'  suits.  These,  however,  they 
exchanged  for  their  minstrel  garb  in  a  forest  when  they 


MY  FRIEND    BILL.  209 

had  gotten  well  out  of  Lecco,  lest  they  should  be  seen 
by  others  of  the  bandits,  who  might  know  through  Bar- 
rone  of  the  "two  young  merchants." 

When  they  were  fully  dressed  as  minstrels  they  were 
both  surprised  at  the  complete  change  it  made  in  their 
appearance. 

"Even  Barrone  would  not  know  us  in  these,"  said  Ed 
ward.  The  merchants'  clothes  were  left  in  the  forest. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

A  minstrel  is  the  friend  of  all.  The  money  of  the  peasant 
will  buy  as  much  as  the  king's.  The  gold  of  the 
bandit  will  go  as  far  as  the  priest's. 

Little  of  interest  occurred  for  the  first  two  days.  They 
stopped  at  night  at  some  wayside  inn,  where  a  mountain 
minstrel  is  always  welcome.  Their  music  attracted 
wherever  they  stopped  to  play.  Many  remarked  that 
such  singing  they  had  never  heard.  The  money  which 
was  given  them  was  always  added  to  and  found  its  way 
to  some  needy  old  man  or  woman  many  of  whom  they 
met  as  they  went  along. 

One  night  they  were  not  fortunate  in  finding  an  inn, 
and  had  to  lie  down  under  the  stars,  but  their  sleep  was 
as  sound  and  as  sweet  as  on  the  softest  of  beds.  In  the 
morning  they  awoke  long  before  the  sun  was  up.  The 
dew  covered  all  the  grass  around ;  the  birds  sang  out  their 
joy,  a  distant  tinkle  of  sheep-bells  was  heard  away  up 
along  the  mountain  side;  the  barking  of  a  dog  in  the 
valley  beneath  them ;  the  loud  voice  of  a  mountaineer  try 
ing  to  sing  some  song  he  had  heard  a  minstrel  sing;  the 
lowing  of  cows  being  driven  home  for  milking  time ;  the 
murmuring  brook,  purling  its  \vay  along  down  the  moun 
tain,  and  a  hundred  other  sights  and  sounds — filled  the 
hearts  of  the  two  minstrels.  Soon  the  sun  came,  shooting 
its  rays  over  a  distant  mountain  range,  turning  into'  a 
million  diamonds  the  dewdrops  on  the  grass  and  then 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  21 1 

drinking  them  up  at  a  quaff.  Oh,  the  glory  of  an  early 
morning  in  the  Alps !  The  man  whose  life  has  always 
been  spent  in  the  city  knows  not  the  joys  of  the  country 
morning ! 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  third  day.  The  minstrels  had 
made  such  excellent  use  of  their  time  that  they  were  but 
a  short  distance  from  the  memorable  Pass.  They  had 
reached  a  considerable  hamlet.  The  gay  dresses  of  the 
girls  and  the  "best  clothes"  of  the  young  man  bespoke  a 
gala  night.  Edward  and  the  Count  were  hailed  with  joy 
as  they  were  seen  entering  the  village  just  at  nightfall. 
Music  is  ever  welcome.  From  the  tent  of  the  wandering 
Bedouin  to  the  palace  of  the  king  it  brings  joy.  A  musi 
cian  needs  no  introduction.  The  world  only  recognizes  his 
music.  The  singer  is  forgotten  in  the  song.  After  the 
two  young  men  had  partaken  of  their  supper,  the  prettiest 
girls  vieing  with  each  other  in  serving  them  with  the 
best  the  inn  provided,  they  were  conducted  into  the  large 
square  room,  where  all  had  gathered  to  hear  the  music. 
Two  other  minstrels  were  there  and  were  singing  as  Ed 
ward  and  the  Count  came  in  from  the  supper  room.  They 
had  soft  melodious  voices,,  but  there  was  no  volume  to 
their  music.  They  sang  a  number  of  songs  and  duets,  and 
sang  them  well  as  they  had  wisely  chosen  songs  of  little 
compass.  These  minstrels  were  well  known  to  the  com 
pany.  They  had  passed  up  and  down  for  years  along  that 
mountain  road.  But  here  were  two  whom  no  one  there 
had  ever  seen.  They  came  into  the  hamlet  unheralded. 
Who  they  were  or  from  whence  they  came  no  one  of  that 
large  company  could  tell.  And  for  that  matter  no  one 
asked.  Not  who  they  were,  but  could  they  sing?  that  was 
the  silent  question  in  the  mind  of  every  one  present.  The 
two  minstrels  have  ceased  singing.  The  company,  now  all 
expectant,  await  the  opening  song  of  the  unknown  singers. 


212  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

These  people,  unlettered  and  unlearned,  had  in  them  an  in 
born  knowledge  of  music.  They  might  not  sing  or  play 
themselves,  but  their  ears  were  attuned  to  the  good  and 
could  quickly  detect  the  bad. 

Edward  and  the  Count  knew  that  to  give  lasting  pleas 
ure  they  must  not  sing  their  best  songs  first.  They  would 
sing  a  simple  ballad  of  the  class  sung  by  the  other  min 
strels.  This  they  did,  and  all  about  the  room  could  be 
heard  unfavorable  comments.  "They  cannot  sing  with 
our  old  minstrels." 

"No  such  singers  as  our  own." 

"Give  us  the  old  ones." 

"We  expected  more  from  their  appearance." 

"No  singers  like  our  own,"  and  many  more  in  like  criti 
cism.  The  musician,  naturally  a  jealous  being,  is  never 
happier  than  when  his  rival  fails  to  please.  The  old  min 
strels  fairly  beamed  with  joy  when,  at  the  close  of  the 
song,  it  was  given  but  faint  demonstration  of  pleasure. 
That  was  what  the  singers  had  expected  and  wished  for. 
They  knew  the  company  had  judged  them  by  their  first 
song.  The  next  one  was  better  received,  and  each  one 
thereafter  was  given  more  applause.  They  were  now  far 
beyond  the  old  singers.  No  comments  could  be  heard  but 
those  of  praise.  They  would  sing  one  more,  their  best. 
It  was  a  duet.  They  began  soft  and  plaintively,  then 
gradually  increasing  in  volume,  until  it  grew  into  a  mus 
ical  tempest.  The  whole  company  rose  long  before  they 
had  finished,  and  when  they  had  done  a  great  storm  of 
applause  followed,  and  for  minutes  nothing  could  be  heard 
but  the  cheer  on  cheer  of  the  wildly  excited  company. 
They  sat  down  as  though  they  had  but  sung  a  simple 
ballad.  There  was  no  look  about  them  that  showed  they 
felt  they  had  done  other  than  ordinary — even  the  old  min- 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


213 


strels,  looking  on  them  as  masters,  came  and  thanked 
them. 

"No  such  music  has  ever  been  heard  in  these  parts !" 

Fortunately  a  minstrel  is  never  asked  his  name  or  his 
home.  They  have  no  home,  and  any  name  will  answer. 

They  had  scarcely  concluded  their  singing  when  word 
was  quietly  given  them  "would  they  come  into  the  adjoin 
ing1  room  ?"  They  followed  the  messenger  and  were  con 
ducted  into  the  presence  of  a  man,  whose  like  they  had 
i: either  ever  met  with.  He  was  tall  and  broad  shouldered. 
His  face  was  covered  with  a  heavy  beard.  His  hands 
were  large,  and  at  the  ends  -of  powerful  arms.  He  was  a 
giant  in  strength  as  well  as  in  stature,  and  yet  he  had  a 
kindly  spoken  voice,  and  seemed  even  gentle  in  manner. 

"A  minstrel,"  he  began  when  the  messenger  had  left  the 
room  and  the  three  were  alone,  "is  the  friend  of  all.  He 
knows  no  man  or  class  of  men.  They  are  all  the  same  to 
him.  The  money  of  the  peasant  will  buy  as  much  as  the 
king's.  The  gold  of  the  bandit  will  go  as  far  with  him  as 
the  priest's.  I  have  heard  you  sing.  I  have  never  before 
heard  voices  equal  to  yours.  I  am  a  man  of  few  words 
and  speak  to  a  purpose.  I  am  a  bandit.  I  am  called  a 
leader.  The  government  wants  my  head,  but  no  one  will 
risk  his  own  for  the  prize  offered  for  mine — knowing  all 
this  are  you  afraid  of  me  ?"  They  smilingly  assured  him 
they  were  not. 

"Why  should  we  be?  A  minstrel  fears  no  man,  as  no 
man  is  his  enemy." 

"Then  listen  to  what  I  would  tell  you,"  said  the  bandit. 
"At  our  camp,  but  a  few  miles  to  the  northwest  from  here, 
we  hold  a  captive  for  a  ransom.  She  is  the  most  beauti 
ful  maiden  whom  any  of  us  have  ever  seen.  She  is  pining 
away,  and  we  fear  she  may  die  before  a  ransom  can  be 
agreed  upon.  We  had  it  almost  concluded  when  a  young 


214  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

American  came  to  Milan  and  saw  her  father,  since  which 
time  he  will  do  nothing.  But  with  this  meddlesome 
American  and  his  friend,  Count  Drasco,  safe  in  our  power 
at  Lecco  we  will  soon  effect  a  settlement,  but  every  day's 
delay  makes  the  danger  of  her  death  more  imminent.  I  am 
thus  explicit  that  you  may  see  the  situation  and  be  ready 
for  my  offer.  I  want  you  to  come  to  our  camp  and  sing 
for  the  maiden.  I  am  convinced  that  your  voices  will 
cheer  her  until  we  can  arrange  with  the  father.  Will  you 
come?  I  will  pay  you  what  you  ask." 

"Our  mission,"  said  Edward,  "is  to  cheer,  to  make  dull 
life  endurable,  to  make  the  sad  forget  trouble,  and  the 
whole  world  happy.  We  will  accept." 

"You  will  not  regret  your  answer.  I  will  call  for  you 
here  in  the  morning/'  They  saw  him  no  more  that  night. 
They  returned  to  the  large  room,  but  were  not  prepared 
for  the  sight  which  met  them.  Five  men  on  either  side 
stood  facing  each  other  with  round  sticks  an  inch  in  thick 
ness  and  three  feet  long  in  their  right  hands.  At  a  signal 
they  began  striking,  each  man  at  the  one  opposite,  as 
though  in  sword  play.  The  blows  were  given  in  deadly 
earnest,  and  yet  all  the  while  the  girls  sat  around  the  sides 
of  the  room  and  seemed  really  to  enjoy  the  sight.  One 
after  another  of  the  men  were  knocked  down,  and  a  fall 
meant  out.  This  kept  up  until  but  two  were  left,  and  the 
one  remaining  of  these  two  was  declared  the  victor.  Xo 
one  seemed  to  feel  ill  at  the  fellow  knocking  him  down, 
but  took  it  in  good  part.  Imagine  the  surprise  of  Edward 
and  the  Count  to  see  the  victor  on  this  occasion  the  man 
who  had  left  them  in  his  wine  cellar — the  villain  Barrone. 
He  was  very  much  elated  at  his  success,  and  passed  around 
Ihe  room  bantering  the  various  young  men  to  try  their 
skill.  When  he  came  to  Edward  he  stopped,  looked  at 
him,  was  about  to  pass  on,  when  some  one  called  out : 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  215 

"Barrone,  beware  of  a  minstrel.     He  travels  in  many  lands 
and  learns  many  things." 

"That  for  your  minstrel,"  as  he  slapped  the  face  of 
Edward.  In  an  instant  the  thought  of  what  this  villain 
had  done  to  him  and  his  friend,  and  the  insult  of  the  slap 
added  to  his  villainy,  was  too  much  for  Edward's  Ameri 
can  blood,  and  he  called  out  "Accept"  amid  the  loud  cheer 
ing  of  the  girls,  whose  favorite  he  instantly  became.  He 
was  given  one  of  the  sticks,  and  found  himself  facing  his 
enemy,  this  time  on  an  equal  footing.  He  had  profited 
by  watching  the  others  fence,  and  learned  that  it  was  the 
same  as  sword  fencing.  He  soon  saw  he  need  have  no 
fear  of  Barrone,  who  began  striking  viciously  but  very 
wildly.  His  strokes  were  cleverly  parried,  and  for  sev 
eral  minutes,  to  the  great  pleasure  of  his  friends,  he  did 
nothing  but  prevent  Barrone  striking  him.  When  he  had 
kept  this  up  quite  long  enough  he  put  into  his  arm  all  the 
force  of  an  outraged  spirit,  and  struck  such  a  blow  as 
none  of  them  had  ever  seen  fall  upon  a  man's  head  before. 
It  was  an  hour  before  Barrone  came  to  his  senses,  but  no 
one  noticed  him,  while  everybody  heaped  praises  on  the 
minstrel.  Even  Barrone  himself,  when  he  came  to, 
grasped  his  hand  and  congratulated  him  with  no  enmity 
whatsoever.  The  Count's  silent  nod  of  approval  was  far 
sweeter  than  all  the  spoken  praises.  The  look  that  Ed 
ward  gave  back  meant :  "Part  of  that  blow  was  for  you." 

Physical  injury  meant  nothing  to  these  people.  If  the 
injured  were  not  themselves,  a  man  might  be  killed,  and 
they  would  think  but  little  of  it.  After  the  company  was 
about  all  gone  a  young  man,  who  had  been  quite  friendly 
toward  Edward,  said  in  a  matter-of-fact  sort  of  way :  "I 
wonder  if  they  have  found  out  who  that  fellow  was  Ama- 
billi  killed  this  afternoon  up  at  the  Pass  ?" 

"Why,"  said  Edward,  horrified  at  the  thought,  "I  hadn't 


2l6  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

heard  of  it,  tell  me  about  it — you  mean  Amabilli  who  was 
here  to-night?" 

"Yes,  he  came  down  to  bring  word  about  it.  You  see 
the  fellow  came  up  here  meddling  around  about  a  girl  that 
Amabilli  has  up  at  the  camp.  Yes,  the  fellow  is  out  here 
in  the  shed  now.  They  brought  him  in  this  evening." 

"And  did  the  people  who  were  here  know  about  it?" 
asked  Edward.  The  Count  trying  all  the  while  to  catch 
his  eye  to  stop  such  dangerous  questioning. 

"Yes — why  do  you  ask?  of  course  they  knew.  Where 
do  you  live,  my  friend?  You're  not  a  "gov  gilly,"  are 
you,  up  here  singing  round  to  capture  the  25,000  francs?" 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  you  fellows?"  broke  in  the 
Count,  who  saw  the  dangerous  turn  matters  had  taken  by 
Edward's  honest  line  of  thought — then  continued  before 
his  question  could  be  answered:  "Speaking  of  girls,  you 
have  some  very  pretty  ones  here.  It's  a  wonder  we  never 
found  this  place  before.  Hereafter  this  must  be  added  to 
our  circuit.  You  see,,  we  have  traveled  a  good  bit  in 
Tyrol.  Now  there's  the  country  where  they  can  sing — 
everybody  sings,  and  Germany — why  even  the  Russians 
are  a  musical  set.  And  the  Finlanders — "  It  is  hard 
telling  where  he  would  have  gone  had  not  the,  landlord 
said  he  always  made  it  a  point  to  close  up  before  breakfast, 
and  they  would  have  to  defer  their  musical  travels  until 
to-morrow.  It  was  a  question  in  the  Count's  mind  if  he 
had  gotten  the  young  man  far  enough  away  from  the  other 
young  man  in  the  shed,  but  he  certainly  hoped  he  had, 
else  he  and  Edward  might  next  day  be  called  upon  to  join 
him  instead  of  going  to  sing,  as  Edward  would  say,  "be 
fore  the  Queen." 

"Would  the  young  man  call  to  see  them  in  the  morn 
ing?"  The  young  man  eyed  Edward  very  closely  and 
critically,  and  said  "he  thought  he  would." 


CHAPTER  XL. 

What  mother  will  watch  for  the  coming  of  an  absent  son? 
What  maiden  will  wait  for  him  who  will  never  return 
to  her? 

The  Count  talked  in  very  low  tones  after  they  had  gone 
to  their  room,  but  Edward  must  have  heard  him.  As  to 
his  questions  thereafter,  he  said  "he  would  never  again  be 
curious  about  anything."  "Put  all  your  gold  carelessly," 
said  the  Count,  "under  the  center  of  your  bed  and  your 
minstrel  purse  of  small  coins  under  your  pillow,  as  this  is 
a  strange  country  we  are  in,  and  often  strange  countries 
have  peculiar  ways." 

Now  all  about  the  inn  was  still,  the  people  of  the  hamlet 
and  country  side  had  gone  their  various  ways,  and  where 
a  short  time  before  was  heard  boisterous  laughter  and 
rough  merriment  was  now  silence. 

At  some  distance  from  the  inn,  seated  on  a  rude  bench, 
might  have  been  seen  two  men  in  low  converse. 

"I  like  not  those  minstrels,"  said  the  younger  man. 
"They  are  far  too  curious  for  minstrels.  To-night  when 
I  spoke  about  the  fellow  whom  Amabilli  had  to  run 
through  for  his  meddling,  the  larger  one  of  them,  the  one 
who  came  so  nearly  leaving  you  a  fit  companion  for  Ama- 
billi's  young  fellow  in  the  shed  there,  wanted  to  know  'if 
the  people  who  were  here  to-night  knew  there  was  a  dead 
man  so  near?' " 

217 


2l8  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

"And  what,"  queried  Barrone,  his  companion,  "did  you 
reply  to  his  question  ?" 

"I  was  so  surprised  at  the  utter  innocence  of  it  that  it 
struck  me  that  he  could  not  be  a  minstrel,  as  a  minstrel 
knows  our  ways  and  asks  not  questions  so  simple. 
'Where,'  I  asked,  'do  you  live,  my  friend?'  and  further, 
'You're  not  a  "gov  gilly"  singing  round  to  capture  the 
25,000  francs,  are  you  ?'  Well,  the  other  one  saw  the  turn 
I  took  on  him,  and  had  you  heard  the  race  he  led  me 
through  Tyrol,  up  through  Germany  and  Russia,  leaving 
me  to  freeze  in  Finland,  you  would  have  thought  he  was 
more  than  anxious  to  get  me  out  and  away  from  my  own 
little  hamlet  here  in  the  mountains.  No,  Barrone,  I  like 
-not  the  minstrels,  and  yet  do  you  know  that  Amabilli  has 
engaged  them  to  go  to  the  camp  to  sing  for  your  beautiful 
maiden?" 

"What,  and  not  speak  of  it  to  me?  I  like  not  this  in 
Amabilli.  These  minstrels  may  be  armed,  and  I  am  too 
well  aware  that  one  of  them,  at  least,  knows  how  to  use 
arms.  Go,"  said  the  bandit,  "and  search  well  for  arms — 
and  their  purses  for  your  trouble.  There,  take  these  two 
vials.  If  they  sleep  not  sound  use  the  larger  one.  Its 
odor  is  a  sweet  sleep  enticer,  and  you  need  fear  no  awaken 
ing  until  you  have  examined  every  part  of  their  belong 
ings.  If  they  be  as  you  suspect  other  than  minstrels,  they 
will  have  arms  secreted,  and  if  so  much  as  a  knife  you 
find — use  the  smaller  vial.  You  know  the  secret  door  to 
their  chamber.  Go,  and  if  to-morrow  the  priest  have 
three  instead  of  one  to  read  over,,  he  will  ask  no  questions. 
Our  priest  knows  the  simple  ways  of  his  parish.  I  will 
await  you  here." 

"Were  I  not  certain  that  the  two  young  merchants  were 
safe  in  the  wine  cellar,  I  would  think  that  merchant  could 
turn  minstrel.  In  form  and  bearing  these  minstrels  are 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


219 


my  two  merchants,  but  here  is  the  key,  and  old  Collitti 
never  betrayed  a  trust."  And  Barrone  smiled  on  in  his 
soliloquy,  and  waited  the  return  of  his  messenger.  "And 
what  must  be  the  account  for  Amabilli's  victim?  Ama- 
billi  has  too  many  of  late  to  account  for.  Ah,  I  have  it ! 
To  let  it  be  known  that  this  one  is  an  Englishman  would 
be  to  bring  that  government  upon  our  heads,  as  England 
avenges  a  wrong  done  its  most  humble  citizen.  And  this 
young  man,  I  should  judge,  is  far  above  the  humble  rank. 
I  will  report  to  Milan  that  a  young  American  has  met  his 
death  in  the  mountain  pass.  1  will  describe  him,  having 
in  mind  the  young  man  who  stopped  our  negotiations  with 
old  Alleyn.  Ha,  ha,  Barrone.  your  wisdom  is  deep.  This 
will  serve  a  double  purpose.  It  will  keep  us  out  of  Eng 
lish  investigation  and  open  again  the  way  to  effect  a  set 
tlement  with  old  Alleyn — and  as  for  America — well, 
America  is  too  much  occupied  with  money  gaining  to 
care  for  a  lone  citizen  who  may  chance  to  have  stood  at  the 
wrong  end  of  a  sword  in  a  foreign  land.  They  may  in 
vestigate,  but  that  has  a  far  different  meaning  in  America. 
No  one  fears  it — but  here  comes  Fulco — and  what  have 
you  learned,  Fulco  ?" 

"I  have  learned  that  I  am  a  fool  and  should  be  beaten 
with  stripes.  I  found  not  so  much  as  a  tooth  pick,  and  as 
for  purses  for  my  trouble,  when  I  saw  the  contents  of 
the  two  I  found  under  their  pillows  I  had  not  the  heart  to 
touch  a  single  centime.  I  have  wronged  the  minstrels.  I 
gained  their  chamber  with  not  so  much  as  a  creak  of  the 
door.  I  let  each  have  a  good  whiff  from  the  larger  vial, 
but  they  seemed  so  sound  asleep  already  that  it  was  of 
scant  need.  I  looked  in  every  part  of  their  clothing.  I 
even  examined  their  clumsy-looking  guitars  for  so  much 
as  a  knife  inside,  but  found  nothing.  I  fear  that  they  may 
have  taken  it  ill  my  inquisitive  speech  to  them  this  night, 


220  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

but  I  will  make  it  up  to  them  in  the  morning."  And  so 
agreeable  was  his  manner  toward  them  when  next  they 
met,  that  they  were  reassured  that  there  was  no  danger. 
He  took  them  to  see  the  slain  man  in  the  shed,  nor  marked 
the  look  of  horror  on  Edward's  face  at  the  sight !  There 
lay  a  youth  of  about  his  own  age,  handsome  as  a  Greek 
god.  His  dark  hair  clung  in  rich  waves  around  his  high 
forehead,  and  he  looked  as  though  in  happy  sleep.  ''What 
mother,"  thought  Edward,  "will  watch  for  the  coming  of 
an  absent  son?  What  maiden  will  wait  for  him  who  will 
never  return  to  her?"  To  avenge  that  life  would  be  his 
mission.  If  not,  he,  too,  would  meet  the  same  fate.  He 
silently  swore  it !  While  they  yet  stood  looking  on  the 
face  of  the  dead,  the  priest  came,  and  without  so  much  as 
a  glance  of  interest,  read  a  short  service,  and  went  as  he 
came,  in  silence.  They  buried  the  young  Englishman 
under  a  tree  nearby  and  thought  the  chapter  was  ended. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

She  stands  resplendent  in  her  beauty.  That  face  which 
had  first  appeared  to  him  in  a  tomb  of  the  dead  of 
thousands  of  years  appears  again  in  the  tomb  of  the 
living. 

Early  in  the  forenoon  came  Amabilli.  So  gentle  was 
his  manner  that  Edward  could  scarce  believe  him  the 
monster  he  knew  him  to  be. 

"Good  morrow,  gentlemen.  I  trust  your  night  has  been 
happily  spent !  I  had  come  earlier,  but  my  captive  maiden 
is  more  despondent  than  ever.  We  have  promised  her  so 
often  that  she  would  soon  be  released,  that  she  is  losing  all 
her  spirit,  and  refuses  the  daintiest  food  we  can  prepare 
for  her.  I  have  promised  her  music.  The  promise 
brought  a  faint  flush  to  her  pale  cheek.  The  change  from 
the  rough  voices  she  has  heard  SO'  long  will  bring  back  the 
color  to  that  cheek." 

"Barrone,  have  you  sent  your  report?  What  have  you 
heard  from  Milan?" 

"Alleyn  is  beginning  to  waver.  He  has  added  one  thou 
sand  pounds  to  the  ransom,"  said  Barrone. 

"Ah,  it  is  working  well — we  will  be  in  no  haste  to  settle 
— but  what  report  have  you  sent  ?" 

"I  have  just  sent  a  messenger  that  a  young  American 
was  slain  while  in  a  quarrel !" 

"Bright  idea.  'Tis  well  you  did  not  report  him  an  Eng 
lishman,  as  that  had  given  us  trouble."  This  brought  a 


222  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

flush  of  shame  to  Edward's  face,  to  hear  his  own  country 
held  in  so  light'  esteem  by  these  rough  bandits. 

"And  now,  gentlemen,  we  will  away  to  the  camp.  You 
will  find  the  way  a  very  rough  one,  but  we  must  choose  a 
retreat  \vhere  ten  men  may  withstand  a  hundred.  Bar- 
rone,  come  to  the  camp  to-morrow.  Fulco,  remain  here, 
and  bring  to  us  the  slightest  word  of  danger,  or  if  you 
hear  from  Milan  bring  us  the  report  at  once." 

"Rough  way''  conveyed  no  conception  of  what  they 
found.  Although  the  distance  was  comparatively  short, 
its  turns  in  and  out  of  canyon  after  canyon — up  ascents 
that  required  such  long  tedious  climbing  that  they  were 
well  worn  out  by  the  time  they  had  reached  their  destina 
tion. 

Edward's  mind  was  filled  with  forebodings  of  evil. 
Suppose  his  Queen  could  be  gotten  away  from  under  the 
watchful  eyes  of  these  rugged  men,  how  could  he  ever 
hope  to  escape  over  a  path  so  rough?  A  path  known  so 
well  to  these  men  that  they  could  traverse  its  most  intricate 
parts  even  in  the  dark?  And  yet  he  would  not  lose  hope. 
"He  would  try,"  had  he  not  said,  "even  though  he  were 
slain?" 

As  they  neared  the  camp,  located  on  a  high  plateau 
which  commanded  a  view  of  miles  of  mountain  country, 
they  passed  sentry  after  sentry  until  they  reached  a  large 
tent,  around  which  were  clustered  other  smaller  ones.  It 
was  almost  dark.  The  fires  were  lighted  in  crevasses  of 
the  rocks,  and  women,  little  less  rough  looking  than  the 
men — who  sat  around  smoking — were  preparing  supper. 
No  one  gave  any  heed  to  the  minstrels.  The  sight  of  min 
strels  was  common  enough  in  these  rough  mountain  wilds. 

When  the  supper  was  set  and  all  were  seated  around 
on  the  ground,  an  old  woman  came  out  from  the  large 
tent  leading  a  pale  young  creature — not  leading,  but  sup- 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  223, 

porting.  She  seemed  so  weak,  this  maiden,  that  even  with 
the  support  of  the  old  woman  she  could  scarcely  walk. 
$he  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left.  She  saw 
not  the  minstrels,  though  she  passed  them  by  to  take  her 
seat  on  a  rock.  The  daintiest  food  was  set  before  her, 
but  she  scarcely  touched  of  it,  and  was  soon  assisted  back 
to  the  tent.  After  the  supper  was  finished  and  everything 
cleared  away,  Amabilli  motioned  for  the  minstrels  to. 
come  and  sit  at  the  opening  oi  the  large  tent  and  to  sing. 

Low,  sweet  music  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night  and 
rang  out  soft  and  clear  on  the  air.  The  Queen,  aroused 
from  her  despondency,  listened  as  though  'twere  from 
heaven.  Used  as  she  was  to  the  finest  music  ever  written,, 
no  music  had  so  stirred  her  soul  before. 

"From  whence  comes  that  sound?  Am  I  losing  my 
senses  at  last  from  these  terrible  days  of  waiting?  Will  I 
awake  only  to  iind  I  have  been  dreaming?  No,  the  music 
goes  on,  on,  now  soft  and  low,  now  increasing  in  volume 
as  though  in  some  grand  Cathedral.  1  will  go  to  it. 
Weak?  no  I  am  strong  now."  And  rising  slowly,  she  ap 
proaches  the  opening  of  the  tent  and  stands  with  the  light 
of  the  campfire  full  in  her  face.  Edward  sees  that  face, 
and,  almost  forgetting  where  he  is  and  the  danger  of  a 
single  false  movement,  is  about  to  rise  and  fall  at  her  feet, 
but  a  look  from  the  Count  brings  him  to  his  senses,  and 
he  sings  on  with  no  quaver  in  his  voice.  That  face  which 
had  first  appeared  to  him  in  a  tomb  of  the  dead  of  thou 
sands  of  years  appears  again  in  the  tomb  of  the  living. 
She  stands  resplendent  in  her  beauty;  the  color  again 
mounts  to  her  cheek  and  the  light  of  hope  fills  her  eyes. 
Long  she  stands  there  as  though  transfixed  with  the 
sound,  then  slowly  returns  to  her  seat  in  the  tent.  Ama 
billi  sees  the  change  and  is  overjoyed.  No  danger  of 
death  now — music  has  brought  back  the  roses  to  her  cheek,. 


224  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

and  she  will  live.  He  grasps  the  hands  of  the  singers  and 
pours  out  his  thanks  to  them. 

"I  knew  when  I  first  heard  your  voices  in  the  inn  that 
you  could  save  her,  but  I  did  not  know  the  full  power  of 
your  voices."  Then  to  Edward:  "You  sing  to-night 
with  tenfold  the  sweetness  that  you  did  in  the  inn.  Your 
very  soul  seemed  to  go  out  from  you.  Ah,  the  life-giving 
virtue  of  the  human  voice !" 

The  hour  was  late.  The  two  minstrels  were  shown  to 
a  tent  somewhat  off  from  the  others  and  on  the  opposite 
side  from  whence  they  had  entered  the  camp. 

The  next  morning  the  maiden  walked  out  alone  and 
joined  the  group  at  breakfast.  Amabili  was  rejoiced  to 
see  with  what  relish  she  ate.  Ever  and  anon  she  would 
glance  at  the  minstrels.  As  she  looked  at  Edward  there 
would  come  to  her  eyes  a  strange  light  as  though  of  some 
thing  almost  remembered,  then  it  would  fade  away,  and  a 
sadness  would  come  over  her  face.  But  all  during  the  day 
she  could  never  see  him  without  the  recurrence  of  that 
look,  and  each  time  the  sadness  seemed  less  marked,  yet  it 
was  never  absent. 

Edward  was  so  affable  in  his  manner  toward  all  the 
camp  that  he  was  soon  on  friendly  terms  with  them.  He 
would  frequently  speak  words  of  English,  but  never  found 
himself  understood.  No  one  knew  even  the  simplest  word 
of  his  native  tongue. 

Just  after  the  midday  meal  Barrone  came  almost  breath 
less  into  the  camp. 

"Danger !  Danger !"  he  cried  as  soon  as  he  could  speak. 
"Five  men  have  come  to  the  inn  looking  for  the  young 
Englishman.  They  have  asked  of  everybody  "had  they 
seen  a  young  stranger  ?"  but  no  one  had  seen  him.  They 
asked  of  the  priest,  but  he  knew  nothing.  They  are  heav 
ily  armed,  and  swear  they  will  find  him.  As  they  partook 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


225 


of  their  breakfast  they  ate  with  their  guns  beside  them  on 
the  table,  while  one  of  their  number  stood  at  the  door. 
Our  people  are  beside  themselves  with  fear,  as  these  men 
intimate  that  more  of  their  number  are  coming.  Amabilli, 
what  is  to  be  done?"  Here  was  seen  the  leadership  of 
Amabiili.  "What  is  to  be  done?  What  need  be  done? 
You  fear  where  no  fear  should  be.  These  men  will  look 
about  them  and  go  as  they  have  come.  They  will  see 
nothing,  they  will  find  nothing.  I  know  my  people,  and 
my  people  never  betray.  Go  back  again  and  come  only 
when  there  is  real  danger.  No — stay.  I  fear  more  from 
}ou  than  from  any  one  in  the  hamlet.  You  see  danger, 
and  your  manner  may  betray  your  fear.  I  will  not  risk 
your  return."  And  nothing  more  was  said,  and  by  no 
sign  could  be  seen  any  concern  on  Amabilli's  face. 

Edward  was  ever  watching  for  an  opportunity  to  speak 
with  Miss  Alleyn,  but  the  old  hag  never  left  her  side  for  a 
moment.  If  she  left  the  tent  this  ugly  old  creature  was 
with  her.  She  might  go  and  come  at  will,  but  never  alone 

Miss  Alleyn  saw  this  anxiety  on  Edward's  part,  and  by 
look  told  him  plainly  that  she  saw  it.  This  was  a  joy  to 
him.  If  their  tongues  were  bound,  no  force  could  bind 
their  eyes.  She  knew  not  why,  but  in  that  minstrel  she 
seemed  to  divine  a  means  of  escape.  But  how?  Could 
two  unarmed  minstrels  used  only  to  music  hope  to  with 
stand  ten  trained  bandits  used  only  to  arms?  No;  that 
were  a  hope  without  reason  of  fulfillment,  and  yet  it  was 
a  hope,  and  hope,  even  without  reason,  was  sweet  to  her. 

"Why,"  she  would  often  ask  herself,  "does  the  one  seem 
so  much  nearer  to  me  than  the  other  ?  Both  are  handsome 
and  both  sing  equally  well,  and  yet  the  one  seems  as 
though  I  had  known  him  for  years !  Did  I  believe  in  a 
prior  existence  I  would  know  him  as  a  friend  in  that  other 
existence." 


226  MY    FRIEND    BILL. 

And  thus  the  days  went  by,  each  like  the  other.  No 
possible  chance  presented  itself  of  even  the  slightest  hope 
of  escape.  The  dull  days  were  succeeded  by  nights  of 
music.  Their  songs,  though  sung  over  and  over  again, 
ever  sounded  sweet  and  new.  Miss  Alleyn,  who  had  a 
fine  voice,  often  joined  in  and  sang  with  the  minstrels  to 
the  great  joy  of  Edward. 

On  the  third  day  Fulco  came  to  the  camp,  and  said  that 
the  five  men  after  remaining  two  days  went  away  with 
out  learning  any  word  of  the  young  Englishman,  although 
they  had  made  great  effort .  They  had  asked  of  everybody, 
even  the  little  children,  but  all  were  silent. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you/'  asked  Amabilli,  "that  my  people 
never  betrayed  ?  Ah,  I  know  my  people  !  What  word  is 
there  from  Milan,  Fulco  ?" 

"Nothing  of  importance,  unless  it  be  that  Colletti  was 
seen  there.  I  thought,  Barrone,  you  had  left  him  at  Lecco 
guarding  your  two  young  merchants  ?" 

"What,"  said  Barrone  in  great  surprise,  "Colletti  in 
Milan !  Pity  the  young  men  who  must  die  in  that  hole ! 
Well,  if  they  could  not  keep  him  in  gold  it  is  no  concern 
of  mine.  No  one  will  ever  know,  for  no  one  ever  goes  to 
that  wine  cellar.  My  wine  cellar  now !''  Even  the  hard 
ened  bandits  could  not  but  feel  pity,  but  the  look  Edward 
gave  to  the  Count  was  not  one  of  pity. 

"Fulco,"  said  Amabili,  "go  back  to  the  hamlet  and  wait 
for  further  news.  Send  a  messenger  to  Milan  \vith  this 
message :  'Accept  offer  of  Alleyn.  Arrange  for  ex 
change  at  our  old  house  (in  the  large  room,  first  floor)  at 
Lecco,  five  days  from  to-day  at  exactly  3  o'clock  afternoon. 
Instant  death  to  maiden  if  a  single  sign  of  duplicity  is  sus 
pected.'  Go." 

"We  will  release  the  two  young  merchants  from  the 
wine  cellar,  and  not  wait  the  full  month  I  promised  them !" 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  227 

And  Barrone  laughed  heartily  at  the  thought. 

When  the  minstrels  heard  this  they  knew  that  what  they 
did  must  be  done  without  delay.  They  feared  that  by 
some  mischance  there  might  be  duplicity  suspected  where 
none  was  meant  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Alleyn,  and  his  daugh 
ter  slain  on  the  very  moment  of  her  release. 

They  came  and  went  in  and  about  the  camp  as  they 
pleased.  They  had  made  long  excursions  in  all  directions. 
They  had  found  the  path  that  Colletti  had  told  them  about 
and  had  followed  it  for  miles,  carefully  studying  all  its 
turns.  Some  distance  back  of  their  tent  and  at  the  very 
side  of  this  path  stood  one  lone  pine  tree  of  immense  size. 
It  stood  out  clear  in  the  horizon  and  might  be  seen  plainly 
from  the  camp  even  at  night.  Miss  Alleyn  had  often  gone 
to  it  with  the  old  woman,  for  since  her  strength  had  re 
turned  with  her  spirits  she  walked  much  about  the  camp. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

It  was  Foster's  immortal  gem,  ''The  Old  Folks  at  Home." 
This  song  is  typically  American,  and  yet  all  the  world 
can  claim  it.  It  is  tlie  thought  and  not  the  river. 
Every  land  beneath  the  sun  has  its  Suanee  River.  It 
may  be  but  the  babbling  brook  that  purls  its  way 
along  down  the  mountain  side  past  some  lone  cottage, 
or  it  may  be  the  mighty  stream  bearing  on  its  bosom 
the  commerce  of  the  world  past  the  gates  of  the  palace. 
It  is  all  flic  same,  the  brook  or  the  river,  the  cottage 
or  the  palace,  if  there's  where  the  old  folks  stay. 

That  evening  the  minstrels  sang  longer  than  usual. 
And  what  they  had  never  done  before,  they  sang  songs  in 
English.  The  instant  they  began  the  first  one  Miss  Alleyn 
seemed  scarcely  able  to  contain  her  joy.  At  first  she 
thought  they  were  repeating  words  with  no  knowledge  of 
those  words,  but  when  Edward  looked  the  full  meaning 
of  certain  parts  of  the  song,  then  she  knew  in  her  heart 
that  he  was  speaking  to  her.  One  of  those  songs,  whose 
melody  is  known  throughout  the  whole  world,  touched  her 
deeply.  Tears  welled  up  in  her  eyes  and  ran  down  her 
cheeks  as  he  sang: 

"An  exile  from  home  splendor  dazzles  in  vain."  She 
was  an  "exile  from  home,"  which  she  feared  she  would 
never  see  again,  but  in  the  joy  of  hearing  those  sweet 
words  sung  by  the  tongue  of  her  own  land  by  one  whose 
accent  she  knew  could  not  be  other  than  that  of  her  home, 

22S 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  229 

her  joy  was  almost  too  great.  None  of  the  bandits  seemed 
to  wonder  at  the  strange  words,  and  many  of  them  even 
hummed  the  tune  or  sang  their  own  words  to  it.  By  this 
time  Edward  knew  it  was  safe  to  venture  on  the  one  great 
theme  of  the  night.  He  would  improvise  in  song  his  plan 
for  her  escape.  He  tuned  anew  his  guitar,  and,  lightly 
touching  the  chords,  began  singing  the  first  verse  of 
Juanita.  Instead  of  its  chorus  he  sang: 

Nita,  Juanita,  listen  to  the  \vords  I'll  sing; 
Nita,  Juanita,  joy  to  thee  they'll  bring. 
Instead  of  the  second  verse,  he  sang  the  plan  of  her  escape. 
Each  line  she  caught  as  though  her  life  depended  upon  her 
not  missing  a  word. 

When  in  the  morning,  just  before  the  break  of  day 

Come  to  the  pine  tree  by  the  lone  pathway, 

There  we'll  meet  you,  yes  we'll  meet  you, 

And  we'll  guide  you  to  your  home, 

Fear  no  evil  will  betide  you, 

We'll  be  waiting,  waiting,  come. 

He  fain  would  have  sung  the  chorus  of  the  second  verse, 
but  he  felt  he  had  no  right.  Some  time  he  might  sing  it, 
but  not  now.  In  its  stead  he  sang : 

Nita,  Juanita,  gladly  from  these  friends  you'll  part. 

Nita,  Juanita,  do  not  leave  your  heart. 
At  this  bit  of  sarcasm  she  could  but  smile.  That  smile 
told  Edward  how  quick  she  was  to  catch  his  meaning,  and 
felt  that  the  plan  would  at  least  be  attempted  by  her. 
They  sang  one  more  song  before  separating  for  the  night. 
It  was  Foster's  immortal  gem,  "The  Old  Folks  at  Home." 
This  ballad  is  typically  American,  and  yet  all  the  world 
can  claim  it.  It  is  the  thought  and  not  the  river.  Every 
land  beneath  the  sun  has  it  Suanee  River.  It  may  be  but 
the  babbling  brook  that  purls  its  way  along  down  the 
mountain  side  past  some  lone  cottage,  or  it  may  be  the 


230 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


mighty  stream  bearing  on  its  bosom  the  commerce  of  the 
world,  past  the  gates  of  the  palace.  It  is  all  the  same,  the 
brook  or  the  river,  the  cottage  or  the  palace,  if  "There's 
where  the  old  folks  stay."  As  they  sang  Miss  Alleyn 
joined  in,  but  she,  too,  could  improvise,  for  instead  of  sing 
ing  Foster's  words  she  sang  her  own,  in  which  she  told 
how  that  she  had  caught  the  full  meaning  of  Edward's 
"Juanita,"  and  promised  to  be  at  the  tree  at  the  appointed 
hour. 

Long  after  the  whole  camp  was  still,  Fulco  came  run 
ning  with  the  wild  news  that  a  messenger  had  just  come 
to  the  hamlet  with  the  report  that  it  was  found  that  the 
wine  cellar  had  been  battered  in  and  that  the  two  prisoners 
had  escaped.  Every  bandit  was  up,  and  the  camp,  was  in 
stantly  like  a  hive  of  bees  overturned.  What  was  to  be 
done?  Where  were  the  two  men?  When  did  they 
escape  ? 

"I  know  nothing  further  than  that  I  have  told  you. 
Yes,  here  is  something  else,  two  suits  of  clothes  were 
found  in  a  forest  near  Leeco  by  a  peasant.  They  were 
small  merchants'  clothes." 

"The  very  same,"  said  Barrone.  "And  when  were  they 
found?  Tell  me — tell  me." 

"The  messenger  who  brought  the  word,"  said  Fulco, 
"could  not  say  further  than  that  it  must  have  been  six  days 
ago." 

The  least  excited  of  all  was  Amabilli,  who  quietly  asked, 
"Has  anyone  been  at  the  hamlet  but  the  five  armed  men?" 

"No,"  replied  Fulco,  "excepting  the  two  minstrels,  but 
it  could  not  have  been  they,"  remembering  his  former  mis 
take  in  judging  them  too  hastily. 

Said  Amabilli :  "Judge  not  too  hastily,  these  men  seem 
to  me  no  common  minstrels.  I  have  thought  so  all  along." 

"Thev  are  the  merchants,"  said  Barrone.     "I  am  now 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  231 

certain  of  it.  Their  form  and  bearing  are  the  same  to  a 
close  point.  I  would  not  have  doubted  had  I  not  been  so 
sure  they  were  in  the  wine  cellar.  Let's  to  them  at  once;" 
and  he  started  toward  their  tent  followed  by  the  now  thor 
oughly  excited  bandits. 

'Hold.  Not  too  hastily,'"'  spoke  the  bearded  leader, 
"we  will  take  the  day  for  it.  We  can  the  better  question 
them  and  detect  every  movement  of  the  face.  We  will 
question  each  apart  from  the  other,  and  if  their  stories  do 
not  compare  we  will  know  them  as  the  men.  They  are 
safe,  as  they  know  nothing  of  the  cause  of  the  commotion. 
Speak  no  word  of  what  you  think.  Now  to  sleep  all  and 
be  up  at  break  of  day,  as  to-morrow  will  be  a  most  momen 
tous  one  for  us."  He  spoke  truly.  The  most  momentous 
of  his  life. 


CHAPTER  XLII1. 

Edward's  quick  eye  guided  iiis  blade  to  a  vital  spot  and 
the  giant  lay  dead  at  his  feet. 

"Edward !  wake,  Edward,"  softly  spoke  the  Count,  "the 
day  comes  on  very  soon !  I  can  see  the  grey  streaks  in  the 
sky."  They  were  now  both  full  awake,  and  stealthily  they 
move  toward  the  great  tree.  They  stand  and  wait.  The 
cay  grows  lighter,  and  yet  Miss  Alleyn  has  not  come. 
"Oh,  why,  why  is  she  so  long?  The  camp  will  soon  be 
surring,  and  yet  I  see  no  sign  of  her."  They  hear  a  steal 
ing  step  behind  them  down  the  path.  It  is  a  dark  figure 
moving  slowly  toward  them. 

"It  is  a  sentry  coming — be  ready,  Count.  Here,  step 
behind  the  tree,  lest  he  see  you.  No  time  to  think  of  spar 
ing  life  now.  It  is  his  life  or  ours,  for  if  we  are  found 
here  at  this  hour  we  are  lost.  Xow,  ready.  I  hear  his 
step  just  beyond  the  tree — hold.  Why,  Miss  Alleyn,  we 
had  nearly  slain  you.  One  step  more  and  you  had  been 
struck  down  for  a  sentry.''  They  turn  to  go  down  the 
path,  when  they  hear  a  most  fiendish  scream  coming  from 
the  great  tent.  The  hag  has  missed  her  fair  prisoner. 
She  rushes  out  wildly  screaming.  The  camp  is  in  an  up 
roar.  Men  and  women  running  in  every  direction.  They 
run  to  the  tent  of  the  minstrels.  It  is  empty.  The  shrill 
whistle  of  their  leader  rings  out  on  the  morning  air.  In 
stantly  every  man  gathers  around  Amabilli  for  quick 
orders. 

232 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  233 

"Fulco,  take  you  five  men  and  spread  down  the  east  path 
toward  the  hamlet,  arouse  our  people  everywhere  along 
the  way,  spare  no  one  but  the  maiden,  and  slay  her,  too, 
if  there  be  chance  of  her  escape.  Baritzo,  you  go  with  two 
men  to  the  south  and  leave  no  nook  unexplored !  Bar- 
rone,  come  with  me  to  the  west  path  by  the  great  pine.  I 
feel  certain  they  have  gone  by  that  way,  as  the  minstrels' 
tent  is  on  that  side  and  no  sentry  to  the  west.  Throw  away 
your  scabbard,  carry  naught  but  your  naked  sword. 
Show  no  quarters.  Oh,  that  I  had  taken  your  advice  last 
night,  and  not  waited  for  the  morning — but  they  cannot 
escape  us.  The  maiden  is  too  weak  to<  hold  out  long.  It 
will  soon  be  full  light,  and  at  the  next  turn  we  may  see  a 
long  distance  down  the  mountain.  T  would  the  men  were 
armed,  as  I  have  never  yet  slain  an  unarmed  man.  I 
even  showed  the  young  Englishman  fair  play,  as  he  car 
ried  a  beautiful  blade.  I  will  show  it  you  on  our  return. 
Let  us  hasten.  We  are  almost  at  the  turn  now.  Here 
we  are.  Can  you  see  them  ?  Look,  too,  for  signs  of  foot 
prints.  There,  see  in  the  sand.  Ah,  1  was  not  wrong. 
They  thought  to  come  this  path,  that  we  would  look  for 
them  in  the  other  directions.  Their  steps  are  long.  They 
are  still  running,  and  yet  I  thought  the  maiden  too  weak 
for  flight.  Watch  close  that  they  do  not  elude  us,  and  we 
pas«  them.  The  steps  are  yet  plain,  but  of  less  length. 
The  maiden  must  soon  tire.  There,  look,  Barrone!  Ha, 
ha,  I  knew  they  must  come  into  view  shortly.  Now  go 
less  fast  as  I  am  not  used  to  so  long  a  run.  Hold !  Call 
to  them,  Barrone.  My  voice  is  not  strong." 

"Stop!"  cries  Barrone,  but  the  minstrels,  one  on  either 
side  of  the  almost  fainting  maiden,  help  her  along. 

"Oh,  T  cannot  go  further,"  she  begs  the  minstrels  to 
leave  her.  "Leave  me  here  and  save  yourselves.  Do  not, 
I  pray  you,  lose  your  lives.  You  do  not  know  those  men. 


234 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


They  have  no  mercy.  They  know  no  mercy.  You  are 
unarmed.  Without  me  you  may  escape  them,  as  you  are 
younger — I — can —  She  cannot  finish  the  sentence  ; 

she  has  fainted. 

"Now,  Edward,  be  ready.  You  are  the  better  swords 
man.  You  take  Amabili,  I  will  fight  Barrone.  Good- 
by,  Edward.  We  have  done  what  we  could.  I  have  no 
regret." 

By  this  time  the  two  bandits  were  almost  up  to  them. 

"Ha,  ha,  my  fine  minstrels.  Did  you  think  to  play  on 
us  as  upon  a  guitar?  Not  so.  Wre  make  not  so  sweet 
music,  our  chords  are  too  harsh !" 

"You  grew  tired  of  my  wine  cellar  full  soon,  my  young 
merchants,"  tauntingly  called  out  Barrone.  "Methinks 
this  time  1  will  lock  the  door  so  tight  you  will  not  get  out 
in  a  day !" 

Not  until  the  two  bandits  were  almost  upon  them  did 
they  prepare  to  draw  their  swords. 

As  each  held  his  guitar,  Amabilli  sneeringly  asked : 
"And  are  you  going-  to  play  for  us,  my  sweet  minstrels? 
Ha,  ha,  have  you  not  already  played  full  much  ?  Get  each 
a  stick  in  yonder  wood  and  play  'gainst  our  pretty  blades. 
Barrone  here  tells  me  you  handle  well  the  stick !" 

Edward  and  the  Count  now  stood  each  before  his  man. 
"Will  you  sing  in  English,  as  you  did  last  night  for  the 
fair  maiden,  or  will  you  give  us  soft  Italian  music  ?  Sing 
again  'Juanita.'  'Twas  a  beauteous  song,  and  well  'twas 
sung."  And  Amabilli  bantered  on  that  he  might  have 
time  to  gain  his  breath,  of  which  the  long  run  had  so  well 
nigh  deprived  him.  He  is  breathing  now  with  more  ease, 
but  yet  feeling  they  had  the  young  men  at  their  mercy, 
continued  to  tease  them  as  they  would  have  teased  at  rats 
in  a  cage  before  putting  an  end  to  them. 

"And  now,  my  lads,  sing  us  the  song  we  all  know,  that 


MY    FRIEND    BILL.  235 

we  may  join  you,  'Home,  Sweet  Home.'  Sing  it  us  once 
more  before  we  send  you  home  as  I  did  the  young  Eng 
lishman  in  whom  Fulco  tells  me  you  took  much  interest  at 
the  inn/' 

"Have  an  end  to  your  jibes,"  cried  the  Count,  who  was 
growing  impatient  and  angered  at  the  insults  heaped  upon 
them.  Barrone  made  a  pass  at  the  Count,  who  on  the 
instant  jumped  backward,  drawing,  as  he  did,  his  sword 
and  throwing  behind  him  the  guitar.  The  movement  was 
so  quick  that  it  seemed  to  Barrone  that  it  had  been  done 
by  magic.  Barrone  began  now  to  test  the  skill  of  the 
Count  by  feints,  thrusts  and  cuts,  but  it  was  soon  apparent 
to  him  that  Edward  was  not  the  only  one  who  knew  how 
to  protect  himself.  The  Count  was  in  a  moment  on  the 
aggressive.  He  was  younger  and  far  quicker,  but  he  had 
not  the  great  strength  of  his  vicious  antagonist,  who  be 
came  now  like  a  wild  beast,  for  the  Count  had  given  him 
a  painful  cut  on  his  sword  hand.  He  forgot  all  skill  and 
.iwung  wildly,  becoming  the  most  difficult  of  adversaries, 
for  the  Count  could  not  tell  by  any  rule  what  he  would  do 
next.  He  swept  a  cut  that  must  have  severed  the  Count's 
head,  had  he  not  dropped  upon  his  knees  with  the  quickness 
of  a  trained  athlete.  The  blow  swung  Barrone  almost  off 
his  feet,  so  great  was  the  force  he  had  expended.  It  was 
his  last,  for  with  a  lightning  thrust  the  Count  had  struck 
upward  and  passed  his  keen  blade  almost  through  the  ban 
dit's  body,  who  fell  forward  and  could  not  rise. 

All  this  while  there  was  a  more  terrific  fight  in  progress 
between  two  more  skillful  swordsmen.  There  were  no 
wild,  vicious  thrusts,  but  every  movement  was  by  a  rule. 
Edward  had  never  before  met  a  man  of  so  powerful  build 
or  one  who  was  so  perfect  in  the  handling  of  a  sword.  It 
was  thrust,  parry,  cut,  parry  on  both  sides  for  a  long  while. 
Neither  seemed  to  have  any  advantage  in  skill,  but  Ama- 


236  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

billi,  taller  and  broader,  would  seem  to  bear  his  adversary 
down  by  very  force.  Edward,  though  of  less  weight  and 
height,  had  muscles  so  hard  and  supple  that  they  seemed 
l''ke  bands  of  tempered  steel,  so  that  his  strength  was  fully 
equal  to  that  of  the  bandit.  Long  after  the  Count  had 
vanquished  his  antagonist  did  these  two  men  stand  facing 
each  other  like  two  wyell  matched  lions.  Neither  could 
gain  a  point,  though  both  fought  so  hard  for  one.  There 
was  no  relaxing  for  a  single  moment.  Amabili's  sword 
is  snapped  and  he  stands  at  Edward's  mercy !  The  giant 
panting  for  breath  expects  no  mercy,  as  he  himself  would 
have  given  none.  Edward  fain  would  have  given  him  life, 
but  the  moment  the  bandit  saw  that  his  life  would  be 
spared,  he  quickly  ran  to  where  Barrone  lay  and  grasped 
his  sword  and  again  stood  ready  to  continue  to  the  end. 
The  end  was  not  far  off.  These  skilled  fencers  were  of 
equal  strength  and  of  equal  skill,  but  not  of  equal  endur 
ance.  The  older  man  begins  to  show  the  effect  of  all  his 
years  of  wild,  vicious  life.  Edward,  who,  on  the  other 
hand,  had  been  when  at  school  remarkable  for  his  endur 
ance,  and  had  led  a  careful  life,  was  yet  fresh  when  Ama- 
billi's  strength  was  waning.  The  moment  his  strength 
began  to  waver  was  his  last.  This  man  wrhose  victims 
v/ere  without  number  had  finally  met  one  he  could  not  van 
quish,  and  yet  he  fought  on  to  the  end.  One  wrong  move 
and  Edward's  quick  eye  guided  his  blade  to  a  vital  spot, 
and  the  giant  lay  dead  at  his  feet. 

Miss  Alleyn,  who  had  come  out  of  her  fainting  spell  just 
as  the  Count  had  beaten  down  Barrone,  sat  and  looked  on 
at  what  seemed  certain  death  for  Edward.  The  Count 
would  have  led  her  away,  but  she  would  not  go.  "No,  he 
is  fighting  for  my  life,  and  I  will  stay  to  the  end ;  a 
braver  man  I  have  never  looked  upon.  Amabilli  has 
never  met  a  man  his  equal,  the  women  at  the  camp  were 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


237 


ever  telling  of  his  prowess.  There,  his  sword  is  snapped 
Why  does  not  the  minstrel  take  advantage  of  it  as  he 
would  a  venomous  viper?  He  is  not  righting  with  a 
man.  Amabilli  does  not  fight  as  a  man  would  fight.  He 
and  Barrone  would  have  slain  you  two  unarmed  as  they 
thought  you  to  be. — There — and  Amabilli  has  met  at  last 
liis  just  fate.  I  am  a  woman  and  hate  the  sight  of  blood, 
but  'twas  our  lives  or  theirs,  and  I  cannot  but  be  happy  at 
the  turn."  The  look  she  gave  to  Edward  was  one  of 
wonderment,  admiration  and  gratitude. 

''How  can  I  thank  you,  my  friends?  You  can  never 
know  the  full  depth  of  my  gratitude." 

"No  time  now  for  thanks,  my  dear  lady,"  said  Edward, 
"as  we  do  not  know  how  soon  the  rest  of  the  bandits  may 
be  upon  us,  and  for  the  moment  I  have  had  all  the  fighting 
1  want.  We  must  away  as  fast  as  possible  from  these 
parts.  How  fortunate  we  were  thrown  into  the  cellar, 
Count,  else  we  had  not  learned  from  Colletti  this  'other 
way  out.'  " 

"What  do  you  mean,"  asked  Miss  Alleyn,  "about  the 
wine  cellar,  and  who  is  Count?" 

"In  due  time,"  said  Edward,  "we  will  have  much  to  tell 
you,  but  not  now." 

They  found  that  their  instruments  were  uninjured, 
though  quite  unstrung  after  the  hard  fought  battles.  Both 
bandits  were  quite  dead.  They  would  leave  them,  as  they 
knew  their  friends  would  find  them,  and  the  little  priest 
would  reavi  over  them,  and  with  possibly  more  feeling  than 
he  had  over  the  young  Englishman. 

As  Edward  had  said,  they  were  far  from  being  out  of 
danger,  as  already  Barritzo  and  his  two  men  finding  noth 
ing  to  the  south  had  returned  to  camp,  and  were  starting 
to  follow  in  the  direction  the  two1  leaders  had  gone, 
even  yet  while  these  leaders  were  fighting  their  last  battle. 


238  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

The  two  minstrels  and  the  maiden  had  scarce  gotten  out  of 
sight  when  the  three  bandits  came  to  the  turn.  They  see 
them  and  are  now  running  full  toward  them. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

No,  good  lady,  these  bandits  arc  most  honorable  men, 
most  honorable  men,  my  good  lady.  They  may  be 
rough  and  mild  in  their  manners,  rough  and  wild,  but 
they  are  the  very  soul  of  honor,  the  very  soul  of 
honor! 

Bill  had  seen  the  paper  containing  the  account  of  the 
assassination  of  the  young  American  (?)  and  had  hurrie.d 
with  it  to  Mr.  DeHertbern,  who  read  it  and  turned  pale. 
Being  a  man  of  quick  action,  he  had  Bill  ring  for  a  Cable 
messenger,  and  hurriedly  wrote  out  a  message  to  the  Con 
sul  at  Milan.  "Spare  no  money.  Hire  men,  a  regiment  if 
needs  be.  and  find  my  son  Edward.  Draw  on  me  for 
funds.  Waste  not  a  minute!" 

The  American  press  is  quick  to  gather  the  full  details  of 
a  "story,''  and  before  night  all  the  papers  in  the  city  had 
columns  written,  giving  not  only  all  the  facts  with  Ed 
ward  DeHertbern's  named  as  the  young  American,  but 
much  more  added  to  make  the  account  the  more  sensa 
tional.  Some  of  them  went  so  far  as  to  write  up  glowing 
obituaries.  Edward  used  often  to  say  afterward  that  a 
man  never  knows  how  truly  great  he  is  until  he  has  been 
temporarily  assassinated  and  has  read  his  own  obituary 
notices. 

There  was  great  sorrow  in  Mr.  DeHertbern's  family,  as 
Edward  \vas  a  most  loved  son  and  brother.  Not  knowing 
what  could  have  taken  him  into  the  remote  mountain  pass, 

239 


240 


MY    FRIEND   BILL. 


the  mystery  was  indeed  very  great.  All  day  long  friends 
called,  and  notes  and  letters  poured  in,  full  of  genuine 
expressions  of  sorrow. 

While  this  was  enacting  in  New  York,  Mr.  Alley n  was 
in  long  conference  with  two  emissaries  of  Amabili,  who 
though  claiming  to  have  no  part  with  him,  yet  negotiated 
most  fully  for  him,  with  complete  knowledge  of  the  min 
utest  circumstance. 

"Your  daughter,"  said  the  speaker  of  the  two,  "is  grow 
ing  very  weak  from  grief.  The  choicest  dainties  are  pre 
pared  for  her,  but  she  will  not  partake  of  them.  The  gen 
tlest  care  is  shown  her,  yet  each  day  she  grows  more  pale." 

"Oh,  why,"  asked  Mr.  Alleyn,  "will  your  leader  neither 
accept  my  offer  nor  name  one  himself?  I  will  wait  yet  a 
little  longer  for  the  young  American  before  I  lose  all  hope. 
He  has  now  been  gone  many  days." 

"Do  you  mean  the  young  man  who  was  slain  a  few  days 
ago  in  the  mountain  pass  where  your  daughter  was  taken 
from  you?" 

"What?  Do  you  tell  me  he  has  been  slain?  What  was 
he  like?"  And  the  description  was  so  like  Edward  that 
Mr.  Alleyn  could  but  exclaim,  "It  is  he.  Oh,  why  should 
he  have  risked  his  life?  Far  rather  had  I  paid  the  last 
farthing  of  my  fortune  than  that  for  my  sake  he  had  done 
this,  and  to  no  purpose !  I  will  wait  no  longer." 

Now  these  men  had  come  with  instructions  to  accept 
Mr.  Alleyn's  last  offer,  but  thinking  to  add  to  it  a  few 
pounds  more  for  themselves,  had  made  the  situation  much 
worse  than  it  was.  They  did  not  tell  the  anxious  father 
that  since  the  coming  of  two  minstrels  to  the  bandit  camp 
that  their  daughter  had  gained  new  life  and  was  quite  her 
own  self  again.  This  they  kept  from  him,  but  said : 

"The  terrible  (he  was  always  terrible)  leader  is  now- 
ready  to  make  settlement,  but  he  will  accept  no  such  paltry 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  241 

sum  as  you  have  offered."  "Paltry,"  and  had  not  Bar- 
rone  spoken  of  it  as  the  "ransom  for  a  king?"  and  still 
it  had  been  added  to  one  thousand  pounds  and  yet  was 
paltry ! 

"I  can  g-o  only  so  far,"  sadly  spoke  the  father,  "and  that 
is  to  add  £5,000  to  what  I  have  already  offered."  The 
surprise  to  the  men  was  so  great  they  were  unable  to  speak 
for  some  moments. 

"If  that  is  the  limit  of  your  offer  we  will  take  it  upon 
ourselves  to  accept,  but  much  fear  it  may  displease  the 
amiable  (he  is  now  the  amiable)  leader.  This  which  we 
may  say  can  but  rejoice  your  heart.  The  exchange  is 
to  be  made  to-morrow  afternoon  at  exactly  3  o'clock.  But 
mark  you  this,  'if  there  is  the  least  sign  of  duplicity' — so 
the  message  reads — 'suspected,  instant  death  to  the 
maiden.'  We  may  not  tell  you  where  it  will  be  made, 
but  we  will  call  for  you  in  the  forenoon."  Mr.  Alleyn 
could  not  for  some  minutes  fully  realize  what  he  had 
heard  the  men  say.  Could  they  mean  that  he  was  going 
to  clasp  again  his  darling  child  to  his  breast?  No,  that 
were  a  hope  too  great.  He  asked  them  again,  that  he 
might  be  certain  he  had  not  mistaken  their  words,  but 
he  had  truly  heard  aright. 

"May  I  call  to  her  mother  and  tell  her  the  great  joy? 
Wife,  wife,  come  and  hear  that  we  are  again  to  see  our 
lost  child.  To-morrow — to-morrow  we  are  to  meet  her." 
And  they  clasped  each  other  in  fond  embrace,  and  wept 
for  very  joy. 

"Oh,  Charles,  I  fear  something  may  happen  to  prevent 
those  awful  men  fulfilling  their  promise." 

"No,  good  lady,"  spoke  the  solicitor.  "These  bandits 
are  most  honorable  men — most  honorable  men,  my  good 
lady.  They  may  be  rough  and  wild  in  their  manners — • 
rough  and  wild — but  they  are  the  very  soul  of  honor — the 


242  MY  FRIEND   BILL. 

very  soul  of  honor."  And  the  little  man  rubbed  his 
hands,  thinking  of  the  extra  share  his  shrewd  bargaining 
would  bring  him,  as  he  knew  "their  very  soul  of  honor" 
could  not  wring  for  them  a  centime  more  than  the  extra 
thousand  pounds  which  the  leader  had  authorized  him  to 
accept.  "Four  thousand  pounds,"  and  as  he  had  done  all 
the  bargaining,  he  would  allow  five  hundred  pounds  of  it 
to  the  other  solicitor,  "and  pay  him  well — pay  him  well — 
and  he  nothing  to  do  but  listen  to  me  talk." 

"As  to  the  possibility  of  any  duplicity,"  said  Mr.  Alleyn, 
"I  would  not  risk  my  daughter's  life  to  punish  your  band, 
even  did  I  know  I  might  capture  every  one  of  them.  No, 
there  will  be  no  duplicity.  And  as  there  will  be  a  number 
of  your  men  present,  and  no  possible  danger  to  them,  I 
beg  that  you  will  allow  me  to  bring  with  myself  and  wife 
two  friends.  You  may  examine  all  of  us  carefully  before 
we  start,,  to  see  that  no  arms  are  secreted." 

"Oh,  no  objections — no  objections  in  the  world.  I  will 
be  there  and  see  that  our  men  are  fully  protected!  No 
objections  to  your  two  friends,  as  I  know  it  will  appear 
more  comfortable  to  feel  that  you  are  not  alone."  And 
the  little  man  flitted  about  the  room  as  he  conducted  the 
arrangements,  ever  and  anon  stopping  to  rub  his  hands 
and  to  brush  back  from  his  forehead  a  stray  spear  of 
gray  hair,  which,  owing  to  his  energetic  movements, 
would  continually  drop  down  across  his  face.  "Now  I 
am  off — off — till  the  morrow.  Remember,  any  duplicity, 
'certain  death  to  the  maiden.'  A  word,  a  look,  an  act  may 
mean  death  to  the  maiden ;  beware  of  duplicity.  Our 
men  are  the  soul  of  honor  and  can  brook  nothing  but  most 
honorable  treatment  in  return.  Adieu — yes,  the  soul  of 
honor !" 

.  Mr.  Alleyn  sent  a  messenger  to  Professor  Blake,  and 
the  American  consul,  asking  them  to  hasten  at  once  to 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


243 


his  hotel  on  very  urgent  business.  They  came  together 
and  were  surprised  to  find  the  almost  smiling  looks  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alleyn. 

"And  what  good  news  can  you  have  heard?"  asked  the 
consul.  ''Your  faces  tell  us  that  we  have  not  been  called 
to  hear  of  sadness.'' 

"Oh,  that  what  has  been  told  us  may  be  true !  We  are 
promised  our  daughter  to-morrow — to-morrow  !  And  we 
want  you  and  the  professor  here  to  go  with  us." 

"Is  there  any  danger?"  asked  the  professor.  The  consul 
smiled  and  promised  that  between  them  they  would  try 
to  see  that  no  harm  would  befall  him. 

"I,  too,  have  a  matter  to  speak  of.  You  are  aware,  Mr. 
Alleyn,  that  the  young  American  who  was  slain  in  the 
mountain  pass  was  most  certainly  Air.  Edward  DeHert- 
bern,  of  New  York  city.  The  description  is  so  exact  that 
there  is  scarce  a  possibility  of  mistake.  I  have  this  day 
received  a  message  from  Mr.  DeHertbern's  father,  who  is 
a  personal  friend  of  mine,  to  the  effect  that  I  spare  neither 
men  nor  money  to  find  his  son,  either  dead  or  living. 
Knowing  that  this  would  be  his  wish,  I  had  sent  out  ten 
of  the  most  trusted  men  I  could  find,  on  that  mission,  the 
very  hour  I  was  convinced  that  the  unfortunate  young 
man  was  Edward,  and  they  were  well  on  their  way  long 
before  the  message  came.  The  professor  and  I  will  be 
here  at  the  time  you  name  in  the  morning." 

The  rest  of  that  day  Mr.  Alleyn  occupied  himself  in 
collecting  together  the  gold,  in  which  the  bandits  had  de 
manded  the  ransom  should  be  paid.  He  had  drawn  from 
London,  and  from  Paris,  and  from  every  available  source, 
as  the  amount  agreed  upon  was  a  very  great  one.  By 
night  everything  was  in  readiness. 

At  9  o'clock  the  next  morning  the  consul  and  Professor 
Blake  were  promptly  on  time,  but  the  two  solicitors  were 


244 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


late.  They  had  held  another  meeting  already  that  morn 
ing,  and  a  most  serious  one  it  was.  They  were  aroused 
from  sleep  at  a  very  early  hour  by  Fulco  and  Barritzo, 
who,  having  called  for  them  at  their  twc.  homes,  were 
told  they  must  be  at  their  office,  where  they  at  times  slept. 
The  little  solicitor,  at  sight  of  the  two  worn-out  bandits, 
could  scarcely  speak,  so  great  was  his  surprise.  With 
out  waiting  a  moment,  Barritzo  began : 

"We  are  undone.  Amabilli  is  dead.  Barrone  is  dead, 
and  I  fear  the  maiden,  too,  is  dead."  He  hurriedly  told 
of  the  escape  of  their  prisoner  with  the  minstrels,  and 
how  Amabilli  had  planned  for  her  recapture.  "When/' 
he  continued,  "I  could  find  no  trace  of  them  to  the  south 
of  the  camp,  the  two  men  and  I  returned  and  followed  in 
the  direction  we  supposed  they  had  gone.  What  was  our 
horror  to  find  our  giant  leader  and  Barrone  dead  in  the 
west  path,  slain  by  the  seven  men.  The  five  armed  men 
who  had  been  seen  at  the  hamlet  inn  must  have  gone  away 
around  to  the  west,  and  at  the  moment  of  the  prisoner's 
escape  were  coming  up  and  met  the  fleeing  minstrels  with 
the  maidens,  and,  by  the  united  forces  of  the  seven  men, 
our  leader  fell,  and  with  him  Barrone.  We  looked  all 
about  to  find  the  dead  who  must  have  fallen  by  the 
mighty  sword  of  Amabilli,  whose  arm  had  never  known 
a  victor,  but  we  could  find  none.  We  are  sure  the  sur 
vivors  have  hidden  them  away  in  the  rocks.  Five  must 
have  been  slain  or  badly  wounded,  as  wre  saw  but  two 
going  away  with  the  maiden.  Wre  feared  to  follow  far, 
lest  by  some  chance  all  of  the  five  had  not  been  slain  and 
might  be  lying  in  ambush  for  us,  and,  as  they  were  known 
to  be  armed  with  guns,  they  must  have  slain  us  without  a 
chance  of  defending  ourselves.  We  ran  a  short  distance 
and  called  loudly  to  the  fleeing  minstrels  to  stop,  and, 
when  they  gave  no  heed,  I  fired  after  them,  taking  most 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  245 

careful  aim,  in  hope  to  avenge  our  leaders.  The  moment 
1  fired  the  poor  maiden  fell.  Hardened  as  I  am,  I  coiild 
but  regret  that  shot.,  as  it  gained  us  nothing  and  must 
have  mortally  wounded  an  innocent  lady.  And  now, 
counsellor,  what  is  to  be  done?  We  cannot  produce  the 
maiden,  and  can  get  no  part  of  the  ransom  we  have 
worked  so  long  to  gain." 

"And  what  say  you,  my  brother  solicitor?" 

"As  Barritzo  says,  there  is  nothing  to  do.  Our  work 
and  planning  is  for  naught.  We  cannot  produce  the 
daughter  to  receive  the  father's  gold.  We  had  as  well 
stop  at  once." 

"And  you  would  all  stop  at  this  point,  would  you?" 
asked  the  little  solicitor,  rubbing  his  hands  and  chuckling. 
"Ah,  my  friends,  there  is  nothing  so  great  as  a  great 
mind.  I  will  now  take  the  part  of  your  leader,  and  in  one 
day  gain  the  gold,  gold,  gold.  Ha !  ha !  what  a  pretty 
word,  and  so  easy  to  gain  when  one  has  a  mind  great 
enough  to  know  the  way.  Listen  to  my  plan.  It  is  so 
simple,  I  wonder  that  you,  Fulco,  or  even  you,  my  brother 
solicitor,  had  not  thought  of  it — so  simple,  so  very  simple. 
Do  you  follow  my  plan?  Ah,  'tis  well,  'tis  well.  I  knew 
when  once  I  explained  to  your  simple  minds 

"But,  brother,  what  is  your  plan?" 

"Ho !  ho !  'tis  so  simple.  I  thought  you  had  caught  it 
ere  I  had  told  it  you.  Continue  to  listen.  By  train  to 
L/ecco — old  house,  big  room — solicitor  and  I  waiting  with 
three  men,  one  woman  and  satchel  of  gold.  Men  un 
armed  ;  Barritzo  and  Fulco  rush  in  and  say : 

"  'Sorry,  but  could  not  bring  daughter  to-day.  She 
sends  regrets.  We  will  take  the  gold — bring  daughter 
next  time;'  rush  out;  I  will  force  three  men,  one  woman 
into  wine  cellar,  lock  the  door,  fix  hinges — and  then  we 
will  divide  the  gold.  For  the  part  you  three  take  I  will 


246  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

give  each  of  you  ^500." 

"But,  solicitor,  £500  is  but  a  very  little  of  the  ransom." 
"And  you  forget  that  but  for  my  great  mind  you  had 
not  received  even  that  little!  You  had  all  given  up  and 
would  stop.  Come,  come;  unless  you  agree  to  this  di 
vision  I,  too,  will  stop.  Yon  see,  I  hare  to  divide  my 
share  wit/i  a  friend."  And,  like  many  another  since, 
"who  had  a  friend  to  divide  with,"  his  "division"  was 
agreed  to. 


CHAPTER  Xi,V. 

Two  dark  figures  intercept  them  with  blows  from  heavy 
sticks. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Alleyn  and  gentlemen,  we  are  late,  very  late, 
but  in  good  time  for  the  train.  My  brother  here  was  slow 
stirring  this  morning.  I  had  come  from  my  home  and 
was  awaiting  him  at  the  office.  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Alleyn, 
to  put  you  under  the  painful  humiliation  of  being  searched 
for  arms,  but  you  know  my  friends  are  the  very  soul  of 
honor — soul  of  honor,  and  I  do  not  dare  risk  any  harm 
coming  to  them." 

No  arms  were  found,  as  Mr.  Alleyn  had  explained  the 
condition  on  which  he  was  allowed  to  take  his  two  friends, 
and,  of  course,  they  had  complied.  Arms  to  the  pro 
fessor  would  have  been  dangerous  only  to  himself  or 
friends,  so  'twas  as  well  he  was  not  permitted  to  carry 
them. 

They  reach  Lecco  at  2  o'clock,  have  dinner,  and 
shortly  before  3  are  driven  in  two  carriages  to  the  old 
house,  whose  wine  cellar  is  better  known  to  us  than  the 
house  itself.  The  two  drivers  remain  in  their  carriages 
while  the  two  little  solicitors,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alleyn  and 
their  two  friends  go  to  the  big  room. 

With  what  anxiety  they  enter!  "Will  they  have  long 
to  wait?" 

"How  will  their  dear  child  look?  Will  she  show  the 
terrible  ordeal  through  which  she  had  passed?"  Ques- 

247 


248  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

tions  like  these  flew  through  their  minds  with  the  quick 
ness  of  thought  as  they  waited.  The  room  is  large,  al 
most  like  a  great  old  reception  hall,  with  doors  leading 
from  it  into  other  rooms. 

"We  are  here,  solicitor,  and  trust  your  friends  will  not 
long  delay  their  coming.  Our  anxiety  is  great  to  again 
behold  our  child,  after  these  days  of  terrible  waiting." 

"  Tis  strange,  most  passing  strange,  they  do  not  come. 
They  are  the  very  soul  of  honor,  and  promised  to  be  here 
on  the  stroke  of  three,  and  'tis  now  seven  minutes  past. 
But  they  must  come  shortly.  They  will  not  break  their 
word — soul  of  honor,  very  soul  of  honor !" 

Just  then  the  outer  door  opened,  and  the  two  drivers 
entered — not  drivers  now,  but  bandits.  All  the  assumed 
meekness  of  the  driver  is  gone,  and  in  its  place  their 
natural  fierce  manner.  They  came  boldly  into  the  room 
and  stalked  across  to  where  Mr.  Alleyn  and  his  friends 
stood,  and,  without  any  preliminary  words,  Barritzo  be 
gan  the  speech  the  little  solicitor  had  prepared  for  him : 

"Sorry  we  could  not  bring  your  daughter  to-day.  We 
will  bring  her  next  time.  We  will  take  the  gold — 

"Stay!"  cried  Mr.  Alleyn.  "Is  this  your  soul  of 
honor?" 

"No,  no,"  exclaims  the  little  man ;  "methinks  they  may 
have  left  that  behind,  too,  to-day — bring  it  next  time. 
Ha!  ha!" 

"You  cannot  have  the  ransom  until  you  bring  our 
child !"  exclaimed  the  father. 

"We  will  take  the  gold !"  gruffly  growled  Barritzo, 
"and  as  for  your  child,  we  will  never  bring  her.  We  can 
not,  as  she  was  killed  in  her  attempt  to  escape."  He  and 
Fulco  rush  for  the  satchel  of  gold,  but  never  reach  it. 
Two  dark  figures  intercept  them  with  blows  from  heavy 
sticks.  The  rustle  of  a  dress  is  heard,  and  Nita  rushes 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  249 

into  the  arms  of  her  mother.  Oh,  what  joy  is  theirs ! 
Almost  too  great !  One  moment  of  despair  at  the 
treachery  of  the  bandits,  and  the  next  in  loving  embrace 
of  a  daughter  they  had  given  up  hope  of  ever  seeing 
again.  The  two  solicitors  seemed  not  to  enjoy  the  sight, 
and  were  about  to  depart,  when  the  two  minstrels  called : 
"Stay,  we  will  need  you." 

"This  is  all  the  result  of  your  great  mind,"  almost 
whimpered  the  dull  solicitor  to  his  brighter  (?)  brother. 
"It  never  does  to  be  too  brilliant  of  thought,  brother.  I 
will  and  bequeath  to  you  my  £500  share.  It  is  very  small, 
'tis  true,  but  all  you  would  allow  tx>  me.  Ask  Barritzo 
and  Fulco.  They,  too,  may  give  you  their  share.  You 
deserve  it,  as  'twas  your  "great  mind'  that  planned  it  all — 
your  great  mind  !"  But  before  the  little  man  of  "honor" 
could  reply,  four  stalwart  men  entered  the  room  and  took 
charge  of  the  prisoners.  "From  whence  came  these  stal 
warts  ?"  No  one  at  that  moment  could  tell,  unless  it  was 
the  consul,  whose  eyes  took  on  a  merry  twinkle  as  they 
entered. 

It  was  a  happy  party  that  rode  back  to  Milan  that 
evening.  The  days  of  anxiety  were  past.  Terrible  as  had 
been  the  ordeal,  it  was  now  at  an  end. 

Edward's  first  act  was  to  send  a  message  home,  to  re 
lieve  the  anxiety  there,  the  consul  having  told  him  that 
he  was  mourned  as  dead. 

There  was  so  much  to  relate  that  long  after  Miss  Al- 
leyn's  return  home  many  things  would  recur  to  her  mind, 
and  no  circumstance  was  too  small  to  be  of  interest  to  her 
father  and  mother,  who  now  worshiped  her  anew  as  one 
from  the  dead.  They  might  have  noticed  that  in  the 
whole  story  of  her  release  only  one  minstrel  played  any 
part  in  it.  "When  Edward  had  slain  the  powerful  leader, 
and  we  were  hurrying  away,  three  others  of  the  bandits 


250  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

came  up.  They  ran  toward  us,  calling  loudly  for  us  to 
stop.  Edward  heeded  them  not,  but  hurried  on.  My 
nerves  were  in  the  highest  tension  when  one  of  the  bandits 
fired  a  shot  after  us.  I  fell  in  a  faint,  as  though  I  had 
been  struck.  'Twas  well  for  them  that  they  came  no 
further,  else  Edward  had  slain  them  all,  as  he  had  slain 
their  giant  leader.  So  valiant  a  swordsman  I  have  never 
seen  as  Edward." 

The  following  day,  after  their  return  to  Milan,  Edward 
called  at  the  hotel  of  the  Alleyns.  He  was  a  welcome 
guest.  Was  it  gratitude  alone  that  made  his  welcome  so 
hearty  ? 

"Mr.  DeHertbern,"  said  Nita,  later  on  during  his  call, 
"wre  have  known  each  other  but  a  few  days,  and  yet  I 
seem  to  have  seen  and  known  you  before — when  or  where 
I  cannot  tell.  Often  in  the  camp  of  the  bandits  your  face 
impressed  me  as  one  I  had  known  long  ago." 

"Miss  Alleyn,"  began  Edward,  pleased  at  this  speech, 
"have  you  ever  seen  a  face  somewhere  that  came  and 
went  in  a  day,  and  you  knew  not  from  whence  it  came 
or  whither  it  went?" 

"Only  one,  and  that  face  I  may  never  see  again."  Her 
cheeks  colored  at  the  reply  "It  did  not  impress  me  at  the 
time,  but  it  had  scarce  gone  from  my  vision  when  the 
remembrance  of  it  came  back  and  has  never  left  me.  I 
remember  it  only  as  a  face ;  the  outlines  are  gone,  and  I 
would  not  recognuize  it  were  I  to  see  it  again.  It  is  like 
the  "almost  remembered  face"  in  Lucile.  I  have  been  in 
many  lands  since  then,  but  never  until  in  the  camp  of  the 
bandits  did  I  see  a  face  that  even  reminded  me  of  it. 
When  you  came  as  a  minstrel  my  mind  flew  back  to  the 
Egyptian  tomb  where  first  I  saw  that  face.  You  know  it 
is  said  that  every  face  has  its  counterpart  somewhere  in 
the  world.  Your  counterpart  must  have  been  in  Egypt 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


251 


a  year  ago,  else  1  could  not  have  been  so  moved  at  sight 
of  the  'minstrel.' ': 

"Tell  me,  Miss  Alleyn,"  said  Edward,  "what  if  you 
could  see  and  know  that  face?" 

"Ah !  I  know  not.  A  mere  sight  may  infatuate,  while 
knowing  well  may  disenchant.  Have  you  known  Count 
Drasco  long?" 

"Somewhat  more  than  a  year.  I  met  him  in  New  York, 
while  he  was  visiting  in  America." 

"Professor  Blake  is  an  American,  is  he  not?" 

"No,  I  believe  he  is  English ;  at  least  so  the  Count  has 
told  me."  Edward  felt  almost  that  he  was  doing  a  wrong 
in  the  part  he  was  acting,  but  he  would  \vin  her  love  with 
out  any  aids.  Did  he  tell  her  that  his  was  the  face  she 
had  sought  for  a  year,  that,  with  the  gratitude  which  she 
naturally  felt  toward  him,  might  influence  her  against 
her  own  heart,  and  he  would  win  that  heart  for  himself 
alone. 

"I  have  often  wondered,"  said  Miss  Alleyn,  "why  you 
should  have  taken  an  interest  in  my  rescue — I,  a  stranger 
to  you !" 

"I  am  an  American,"  Edward  replied,  "and  when  one 
of  my  countrywomen  is  in  danger  I  feel  it  is  my  duty  to 
rescue  her." 

"I  am  not  an  American,"  she  said,  "although  most  of 
my  life  was  passed  in  that  country." 

"You  are  not  an  American !  Why  should  I  have  so 
thought?  I  have  had  that  impression,  and  I  think  the 
Count  has  the  same." 

"No.  I  was  born  in  England  and  went  to  America  as  a 
child.,  and  remained  there  until  four  years  ago.  These 
four  years  I  have  spent  in  school  in  Paris  and  in  travel." 

Although  Edward  remained  some  time,  their  conversa 
tion  was  of  a  commonplace  order.  His  was  a  delicate 


252  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

situation.  He  did  not  dare  presume  on  the  part  he  had 
played  in  Miss  Alleyn's  rescue,  and  yet  the  promptings 
of  his  heart  were  to  urge  his  suit.  He  could  not  think  of 
her  as  a  friend  of  the  few  days  he  had  known  her,  but  the 
friend  of  a  whole  year. 

Edward  went  direct  to  the  Consul's  office,  where  he  was 
met  with  a  cordial  greeting.  "Ah,  Mr.  DeHertburn,  glad 
to  see  you !  I  was  intending  to  look  you  up.  I  suppose 
you  have  heard  that  the  little  solicitor  is  making  great 
efforts  to  get  on  this  side  of  his  prison  door?  No?  Oh, 
yes.  No  less  than  five  of  Milan's  prominent  men  have 
been  to  see  me  in  his  behalf.  Some  of  them  are  almost 
insolent  in  their  request  that  he  be  released  without  delay. 
They  claim  that  he  is  entirely  innocent  of  any  knowledge 
of  the  bandits  and  that  he  had  gone  with  the  two  as  a 
legal  advisor  on  a  matter  which  they  would  explain  to  him 
at  L/ecco.  I  have,  on  the  other  hand,  most  positive  evi 
dence  that,  under  the  guise  of  their  legal  advisor,  this 
solicitor  is,  in  fact,  the  leader  of  the  band  in  Milan.  Even 
the  leader  whom  you — well,  the  leader  who  did  not  slay 
you,  was  in  a  manner  under  control  of  this  man.  I  further 
find  that  this  band  of  outlaws  is  far-reaching  and  has 
emissaries  in  all  the  cities  of  Northern  Italy.  The  gov 
ernment  is  really  anxious  to  break  it  up,  as  tourists  are 
becoming  fearful  of  traveling  here.  And  now,  if  you 
and  Mr.  Alleyn  will  give  me  your  support,  I  will  agree 
that  few  of  them  will  be  left  out  of  prison  or  on  this  side 
of  America.  Once  we  get  them  there  we  will  make  law- 
abiding  citizens  out  of  them.  DeHertburn,  great  country 
that  of  ours  for  turning  a  savage  bandit  into  a  meek  street 
sweeper,  eh?" 

"You  may  count  on  myself,  and  I  am  quite  sure  Air. 
Alleyn  will  most  heartily  lend  his  aid  to  the  movement." 

"DeHertburn,  let  me  show  you  a  sword  that  one  of  my 
men  took  from  the  big  bandit  yesterday  at  Lecco.  He 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


253 


brought  it  here  this  morning.  Isn't  that  a  fine  one? 
Notice  the  carving." 

"And  see,"  said  Edward,  "this  coat  of  arms  on  the  hilt. 
Had  not  noticed  it?  Some  unfortunate  tourist,  no 
doubt !" 

"Tourists,"  said  the  Consul,  "are  not  in  the  habit  of 
carrying  swords  about  the  country  with  them.  This  one 
must  have  belonged  to  no  ordinary  personage.  I  have 
seldom  seen  so  fine  a  blade  or  one  of  so  elegant  mount 
ing.  This  morning  the  men  I  sent  to  get  the  particulars 
of  your  'assassination'  returned.  They  bring  but  meagre 
word.  They  learned  from  a  little  priest  that  the  only 
strangers  who  have  been  in  the  hamlet  near  the  Pass 
were  'two  minstrels.'  When  asked  about  the  young  man 
who  was  slain,  he  denied  all  knowledge  of  him." 

"The  little  villain !"  exclaimed  Edward.  "We  saw  this 
very  same  priest  and  heard  him  read  the  funeral  service 
over  the  man  whom  the  bandits  spake  of  as  an  English 
man." 

"An  Englishman?"  asked  the  Consul.  "I  will  at  once 
see  the  English  Consul  and  lay  the  facts  before  him.  If, 
indeed,  he  were  English  we  will  find  in  the  Consul  of  that 
country  an  active  ally."  Edward  then  related  to  his  friend 
all  that  he  had  learned  of  the  young  man ;  how  that  he 
had  been  slain  by  Amabilli  and  brought  to  the  hamlet  and 
buried  near  a  large  tree  by  the  inn.  He  did  not  know  how 
nearly  he  had  come  being  laid  himself  'neath  that  tree. 
All  the  time,  while  Edward  was  looking  at  the  sword,  he 
was  asking  himself:  "Where  have  I  seen  this  coat  of 
arms?  There  is  something  so  familiar  about  it  that  it 
seems  not  new  to  me."  He  could  not  recall  it.  In 
America  a  coat  of  arms  means  so  little  that  one  gives  it 
but  scant  thought.  Time  and  again  "the  raven  wings,  on 
a  crown,  surmounting  a  shield  on  which  were  mullets  and 
bars,"  would  come  into  his  mind,  but  he  could  not  place  it. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

Father,  if  only  the  perfect  men  were  chosen  as  husbands, 

there  would  be  but  few  wives. 
One  may  almost  love  as  a  friend,  and  hate  that  friend  if 

forced  on  one  as  a  lover. 

Count  Drasco  owed  much  of  social  pleasure  to  Edward 
during  his  visit  in  New  York,  and  had  already  laid  many 
plans  for  returning  these  pleasures ;  but  when  he  pro 
posed  them  to  Edward  he  found  him  in  no  humor  for  any 
society  aside  from  what  he  could  find  at  the  hotel  of  the 
Alleyns.  "I  have  no  heart,"  he  would  say,  "for  anything 
social.  I  have  told  you  how  that,  for  the  past  year,  I 
have  thought  only  of  one,  and  that  one  I  felt  was  forever 
lost  to  me,  but  now  that  I  have  again  found  the  object 
of  my  heart's  longing,  I  can  think  of  naught  else."  He 
was  so  earnest  that  the  Count  would  not  urge  him. 

Brave  almost  to  a  fault  when  face  to  face  with  real 
danger,  Edward  now  felt  himself  a  coward.  He  would 
know  his  fate,  and  yet  feared  to  put  to  the  test  the 
means  of  learning  it.  "I  may  be  too  late,"  he  would  say 
to  himself.  "Some  one  else  may  have  seen  in  her  the  one 
being  in  all  this  world  to  him,  and  have  received  from  her 
a  promise  she  cannot  break.  So  much  of  worth  and 
beauty  cannot  have  been  left  alone  for  me !"  He  is  now 
quite  as  despondent,  having  found  the  object  of  his  search, 
as  he  was  when  he  thought  that  object  forever  lost  to 
him. 

254 


FRIEND   BILL.  255 

His  was  not  the  only  yearning  heart!  Seated  at  the 
piano  that  evening  we  find  Nita  softly  singing  "Juanita," 
which  had  been  running  in  her  mind  since  that  memorable 
night  when  it  had  brought  so  much  of  hope  to  her.  She 
had  forgotten  in  the  song  that  her  father  and  mother 
were  near  her.  She  had  forgotten  all  else  but  the  minstrel 
and  his  song.  When  her  father  spoke,  she  started,  and 
seemed  to  wake  as  from  a  sleep.  "Why,  father,"  she 
said,  "you  startled  me !" 

"Yes,  my  little  girl ;  you  seemed  to  have  been  a\vay  off. 
Where,  I  wonder,  could  you  have  been  that  you  had  so 
forgotten  us?  Ah,  methinks  my  little  girl  was  in  her 
English  home,  singing  to  her  cousin  lover." 

"Father,  why  do  you  taunt  me  with  my  fate?  Is  it  not 
enough  to  be  bound  to  one  I  can  never  love,  without  being 
reminded  of  it  continually?" 

"You  forget,  my  darling  child,  that  it  was  the  will  of 
my  father  that  you  should  marry  your  distant  cousin,  Lord 
Clarence  Aglionby,  that  our  two  houses  might  again  be 
brought  together." 

"Xo,  father,  I  do  not  forget  it.  I  cannot  forget  it.  I 
lie  awake  far  into  the  night  thinking  of  the  bitter  fate  that 
awaits  me.  Oh,  why — why  could  your  father  have  thus 
blighted  my  life?" 

"Was  it  to  blight  your  life  to  choose  for  you  a  husband, 
a  man  of  so  superior  character  as  your  Cousin  Clarence? 
He  has  all  the  finer  qualities  of  character  that  go  to  make 
the  perfect  man." 

'''Father,  if  only  the  perfect  men  were  chosen  as  hus 
bands,  there  would  be  but  few  wives.  I  would  take  as  a 
husband  one  I  could  truly  love  far  rather  than  the  most 
perfect  character  that  ever  lived.  The  heart  does  not  seek 
perfection.  It  seeks  love.  The  most  homely  face  to  the 
eye  is  often  the  most  beautiful  to  the  heart.  Clarence  may 


256  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

be  the  most  perfect  of  men  in  form  and  character,  but  to 
my  heart  he  is  the  most  deformed,  and  I  can  never  love 
him." 

"Nita,  when  first  you  knew  of  your  grandfather's 
wishes  you  did  not  feel  toward  your  cousin  any  ill.  You 
seemed  then  even  to  like  him  well." 

"Yes,  father;  but  you  forget  that  one  may  almost  love 
as  a  friend  and  hate  that  friend  if  forced  on  one  as  a  lover. 
Clarence  and  I  could  have  been  the  best  of  cousins,  but 
the  moment  I  had  to  think  of  him  as  a  husband  I  even  dis 
liked  him  as  a  cousin." 

"Nita,  you  even  liked  him  well  until  \ve  visited  Egypt, 
since  which  time  you  seem  to  have  cared  less  and  less  for 
him,  but  I  did  not  know  until  this  night  that  you  had  such 
an  aversion  for  him.  My  child,  is  there  another  your 
heart  would  choose?"  She  hesitated  and  did  not  reply. 
"Tell  me,"  he  urged,  "if  you  were  free  to  choose,  is  there 
another?" 

"Yes,  father,  there  is  one  to  whom  my  very  soul  goes 
out.  Without  his  love  my  life  were  worse  than  death  to 
me." 

"Who  can  have  so>  won  your  love?  Have  you  kept 
from  us  this  secret  all  this  while?" 

"Ah,  father,  'this  while'  is  very  short." 

"You  cannot  mean  Mr.  DeHertbern  or  the  Count, 
whom  you  have  known  -so  short  a  time?"  anxiously  in 
quired  her  father. 

"Yes,  father — it — is — Edward  DeHertbern  whom  I 
love!" 

"And  has  he  dared  speak  to  you  of  love?" 

"No,  father;  he  has  ever  kept  far  away  from  the  sub 
ject,  and  that  is  why  my  heart  of  times  feels  as  if  it  would 
break !" 

"Come,  Nita,"  more  softly,  "my  little  girl,  you  must  not 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  257 

mistake  gratitude  for  love.  Mr.  DeHertbern  risked  his 
life  for  you,  and  we  all  should  feel  very  grateful  to  him 
for  it." 

"Father,  could  the  feeling  I  had  for  him  in  the  bandits' 
camp  have  been  one  of  gratitude  when  I  saw7  him  as  a 
minstrel,  before  I  knew  him  as  a  friend,  come  to  save  me 
from  an  awful  fate?  That  feeling  was  not  gratitude.  It 
was  the  same  that  now  I  feel  and  I  know  is  love.  The 
.Count,  too,  helped  to  rescue  me.  If  gratitude,  I  would 
feel  the  same  toward  both." 

"Xita,  prepare  your  mind  to  hear  that  which  would  for 
ever  prevent  your  marriage  to  Mr.  DeHertbern,  even 
though  you  were  not  already  bound  to  Lord  Aglionby. 
My  father's  will,  which  has  said  you  shall  marry  your 
cousin,  also  says  that  if  Clarence  should  die  before  his 
marriage  to  you  that  you  sliall  not  marry  an  American!" 

"Does  it  say  that?  Oh,  father,  why  should  he  have 
been  so  minded  as  to  wreck  your  young  life  by  act,  and 
mine  by  his  will!  I  care  not  now  what  may  come!  I 
am  resigned  to  any  fate !  Oh,  why  was  I  not  saved  this 
misery  ?  Would  that  the  aim  of  the  bandit  had  been  true ! 
I  had  been  better  dead !" 

"Child,  you  know  not  what  you  are  saying.  Have  you 
no  love  for  us?  We,  who  have  ever  tried  to  make  your 
young  life  sweet  and  happy,  can  ill  hear  you  speak  thus." 

"Mother,  forgive  me,  but  my  heart  seems  breaking! 
Let  us  go  away  from  here!  'Where?'  Any  place  where 
I  will  have  nothing  to  remind  me  of  Edward.  Oh,  I  must 
see  him  once  more.  I  wish  then  to  go  back  to  England, 
and  on  the  most  remote  part  of  your  possessions  hide 
away  from  the  world  until  I  will  have  to  come  out  to  face 
it  as  the  wife  of  a  man  I  can  never  love." 

When  Edward  called  the  next  day  he  wras  told  that 
Nita  was  verv  ill.  Brain  fever  was  feared.  "The  strain 


258  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

on  her  mind  during  her  captivity  was  too  great,  and  she 
has,  I  fear,  broken  down  under  it,"  explained  Mr.  Alleyn. 

"I  am  greatly  surprised,"  said  Edward,  "for  she  seemed 
very  well  yesterday,  and  quite  happy  in  being  with  you 
again."  He  did  not  dare  remain,  else  he  had  broken 
down  in  Mr.  Alleyn's  presence.  He  called  a  number  of 
times  during  the  day  to  inquire.  He  could  find  no  rest 
away  and  no  comfort  near,  and  yet  he  wandered  back  and 
forth  all  the  day  long.  So  intense  became  his  grief  at  last 
that  he  felt  he  owed  to  Mr.  Alleyn  an  explanation  of  his 
interest.  So,  on  meeting  that  gentleman,  he  timidly 
began :  "You  must  see  that  my  interest  in  your  daughter 
is  not  that  of  a  mere  friend.  With  possibly  no  right  I 
have  grown  to  love " 

"Stop,  Mr.  Detlertbern,"  broke  in  Mr.  Alleyn,  "you 
must  go  no  further.  I  owe  too  much  to  you  to  allow  this 
to  continue.  Xita  is  the  promised  wife  of  another." 

Ed\yard's  greatest  fears  were  thus  harshly  realized  at 
the  very  moment  when  his  grief  at  her  sudden  illness  was 
most  intense.  He  fain  would  have  left  Milan  at  once,  but 
he  could  not  go  while  Nita  continued  ill.  He  must  see 
her  once  more,  even  though  it  would  wring  his  heart  to 
part  with  her.  She  would  never  know  the  depths  of 
his  love.  He  would  wait  until  she  might  see  him.  He 
would  say  good-by  as  a  friend  and  see  her  no  more.  The 
face  which  had  looked  out  from  memory  upon  him  for  a 
weary  year  had  been  found  at  last,  but  that  face  could 
never  be  his — another  had  claimed  it. 

The  ills  of  this  life  seldom  come  alone.  That  day  Lord 
Alleyn  had  received  a  letter  from  England  stating  that 
Lord  Aglionby  had  left  London  for  Paris  about  one  month 
before,  and  that  nothing  had  been  heard  from  him  since 
the  day  he  reached  that  city.  In  that  letter  he  spoke  of 
having  just  heard  that  Nita  had  been  taken  captive  by 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  259 

bandits  in  a  certain  place  in  Northern  Italy.  That  is  all 
he  had  said.  His  friends  had  looked  for  him  in  Paris, 
but  could  find  no  trace  of  him.  This  greatly  worried  Mr. 
Alleyn,  as  Clarence  had  never  been  one  of  those  travelers 
who  come  and  go  without  any  word  to  their  friends  at 
home.  He  had  always  kept  them  informed  just  where 
he  was,  and  four  weeks  away,  and  no  word,  was  alarm 
ing!  Mr.  Alleyn  would  see  his  English  Consul  at  once 
and  advise  with  him  as  to  what  should  be  done.  As  he 
entered  that  gentleman's  office  he  was  greeted  with : 
"Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Alleyn.  I  was  on  the  point  of 
going  to  your  hotel  on  a  very  important  matter.  It  has 
just  reached  my  ears  that  one  of  our  countrymen  has  met 
his  death  almost  in  the  same  place  that  your  daughter 
was  taken.  I  had  heard  of  this  at  the  time,  but  you  will 
remember  it  was  reported  that  the  young  man  was  an 
American.  I  did,  however,  dispatch  five  men  to  investi 
gate  the  affair,  but  they  returned  and  said  they  could 
learn  nothing  whatever  of  the  matter.  I  have  just  heard, 
from  the  American  Consul,  that  when  the  two  bandits 
were  taken,  along  with  the  two  solicitors,  at  Lecco,  that 
a  beautiful  sword  was  found  on  one  of  the  prisoners. 
Whether  it  will  be  of  any  aid  to  us,  I  do  not  know,  but 
the  Consul  left  it  with  me.  Here  it  is.  It  is  a  magnifi 
cent  one." 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Alleyn  caught  sight  of  the  coat  o<f 
arms  on  the  hilt.  "My  worse  fears  are  true!  See  this 
coat  of  arms?  It  is  that  of  our  family,  and  the  young 
man  is  none  other  than  Lord  Clarence  Aglionby,  who,  I 
have  just  heard,  has  been  gone  from  his  home  for  a 
month.  What  further  did  you  learn?" 

"You  have  heard,  no  doubt,"  replied  the  Consul,  "from 
Count  Drasco  and  the  American  all  that  they  knew  about 
the  young  man  whom  they  saw  buried  at  the  inn  near  the 


200  MY    FRIEND    BILL. 

pass?  You  have  heard  them  speak  nothing  of  the  affair? 
You  will  do  well  to  see  them  without  delay.  I  believe 
they  saw  the  young  man  and  may  be  able  to  describe  him 
to  you.  We  will  hope  their  account  will  prove  to  you 
that  your  fears  are  unfounded." 

Air.  Alleyn  went  directly  to  the  Count's  home,  where 
he  met  Edward.  lie  began  at  once  his  sad  inquiry.  So 
deep  had  been  the  impression  made  on  their  minds  at  sight 
of  the  young  man  at  the  hamlet  inn  that  they  could 
describe  him  as  though  looking  on  a  picture,  and  when 
they  had  concluded,  Mr.  Alleyn  had  no  longer  a  doubt. 

"It  is  he — poor  Aglionby !  What  did  you  learn  in  con 
nection  with  the  sad  affair?" 

"We  learned  that  he  had  been  slain  at  the  fateful  moun 
tain  pass,1'  said  the  Count,  "by  Amabilli,  the  bandit  leader, 
whom  we  met  just  after  the  tragedy.  The  body  was 
brought  directly  to  the  inn,  but  we  did  not  learn  of  it  until 
very  late  in  the  night.  Edward's  surprise  was  so  great 
on  hearing  of  it  that  the  interest  he  manifested  came 
near  resulting  in  one  or  two  more  tragedies.  They  be 
came  very  suspicious  of  us.  Was  he  an  Englishman,  as 
was  thought?" 

"Yes,  and  a  dear  relative  of  our  family.  Have  you  de 
scribed  to  the  Consul  the  exact  location  of  his  grave?" 

"Yes,  most  fully,  and  have  advised  him  of  all  our  ob 
servations.  He,  with  the  cooperation  of  our  American 
Consul,  will  leave  nothing  undone  to  avenge  the  death  of 
your  friend." 

Mr.  Alleyn  at  once  sent  the  sad  news  back  to  England. 
He  also  sent  to  his  lawyers  for  a  copy  of  his  father's  will, 
as  he  remembered  that  there  was  in  it  a  codicil  touching 
on  the  event  of  Lord  Aglionby's  death  :  certain  estates  left 
him  should  revert  to  Clarence's  brothers.  He  was  not 
sure  as  to  the  wording  of  it,  and  it  might  be  necessary  for 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  26l 

him  to  return  to  England,  which  he  could  not  do  while 
Nita  was  so  ill.  On  his  return  to  the  hotel  he  found  her 
much  worse.  She  did  not  know  him.  "Go  away.  I  will 
not  have  to  fulfill  my  part.  I  will  soon  be  free — free  as  a 
bird,  to  fly  away.  Grandfather  thought  to  bind  me  here, 
but  I  will  not  stay — will  not  stay/'  and  her  mind  ran  on 
in  wild  wanderings.  "Yes,  Edward,  I  am  going.  I  will 
wait  for  you,  as  I  have  long  waited  for  the  unknown 
face.  They  may  bind  me  here,  but  not  there — not  there. 
Oh,  the  bandits !  the  bandits !  Too  late !  They  have 
taken  me  again,  but  Edward  will  come  for  me.  He  will 
sing  again  for  his  Nita.  Pie  will  know  his  Nita  now. 
He  did  not  know  her  then,  and  yet  he  sang  to  Nita.  Our 
hearts  knew  each  other — our  hearts."  She  would  sleep, 
and  start  up  and  cry  out  as  though  she  were  again  a  cap 
tive.  She  seldom  would  speak  any  name  but  Edward's. 
His  name  was  ever  on  her  lips.  Her  father  and  mother 
were  grief-stricken,  as  the  days  went  by,  at  the  thought 
of  her  death.  The  physicians  gave  them  no  hope. 

"The  strain  on  her  mind  during  her  captivity  was 
great,''  said  the  attendant  physician,  "but  you  say  she 
seemed  well  on  her  return  ?  There  must  then  be  another 
cause,  or  rather  an  assistant  cause.  Has  anything  oc 
curred  since  her  return  that  would  in  any  way  give  her 
worry?  It  need  have  been  but  slight,  as  her  mind 
although  apparently  normal,  needed  but  little  to  cause  this 
result."  He  had  followed  his  question  with  an  explana 
tion,  and  they  not  replying  at  once,  he  did  not  press  them 
for  an  answer ;  but  they  knew  too  well  the  cause.  One 
day  when  Nita  appeared  to  be  almost  gone,  the  doctor 
asked,  "Who  is  Edward,  whom  she  continually  talks 
about  ?" 

"He  is  one  of  the  young  men  of  whom  I  told  you,  who 
had  rescued  her  from  the  camp  of  bandits." 


262  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

"It  is  our  last  hope.  Have  him  come  at  once,  and  if  for 
a  moment  her  mind  should  come  back  and  she  see  him 
here,  she  may  rally.  Lose  no  time,  as  even  now  I  fear  it 
is  too  late  !"  Edward,  who  now  spent  all  of  his  time  near 
by,  was  hastily  summoned.  She  did  not  recognize  him. 
She  continually  talked  on  about  the  camp.  "He  sang  to 
Nita,  though  he  did  not  know  Nita.  He  will  sometime 
know  Xita — sometime.  They  won't  marry  me  to  Clar 
ence  now.  I  am  so  happy — so  happy — I  will  soon  go 
away — away  off — away  !  Oh,  Edward,  save  me — the 
giant  bandit !'" 

"Xita  !     Xita  !    here  I  am  !'' 

"His  voice — oh,  papa — his  voice.  I  heard  him  call  to 
me.  He  will  save  me,  papa.  The  will  says  I  may  never 
be  his,  but  I  will  love  him  always,  always.  I  will  wait 
for  him — wait  for  him — wait— for  my  Edward  !" 

"Too  late,"  softly  spoke  the  doctor.  "I  feared  it.  Had 
I  known  in  time  we  might  have  saved  her.  Hold !  there 
is  a  faint  pulse  yet,  very,  very  faint.  If  her  mind  could 
only  rest  she  might  yet  live.''  From  that  moment  she 
went  off  into  a  gentle  sleep,  the  first  restful  sleep  for  many 
days.  The  next  morning  a  slight  change  for  the  better 
was  noticed,  and  once  or  twice  during  the  day  her  mind 
returned  for  a  few  moments.  During  these  lucid  inter 
vals  she  spoke  but  little.  She  seemed  very  sad.  At  one 
time  she  said  to  the  nurse :  "Oh.  why  did  they  bring  me 
back?  I  thought  1  had  gone,  and  1  was  so  happy!" 

She  was  slightly  better  next  day,  but  that  awful  sad 
ness  clung  to  her,  and  she  would  continually  repeat,  "Why 
did  they  bring  me  back?"  "Xurse,  have  I  been  very  ill?" 

"Yes.  XTita,  you  were  quite  ill,  but  you  will  soon  be  well 
again." 

"Xnrse,  I  do  not  want  to  get  well.  I  have  nothing  to 
live  for  ;  I  were  happier  gone  !" 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  263 

"Come,  come,  my  little  patient  must  not  talk  so.  You 
will  soon  be  well,  and  then  you  will  be  very  happy  again." 

''Nurse,  I  will  never  be  happy  again !" 

"Come,  now,  go  to  sleep."  She  spoke  to  her  as  to  a 
little  child.  The  nurse  was  very  gentle,  but  very  indis 
creet,  as  when  Nita  asked,  "Nurse,  has  there  been  any  one 
here  while  I  was  ill  whom  they  called  Clarence?"  she  an 
swered,  "Why,  if  it  is  your  cousin  you  mean,  he  is  dead!" 

"Dead  !  My  cousin  Clarence  dead?  Oh,  tell  me  about 
him."  And  the  nurse  repeated  all  she  had  heard  from 
first  to  last. 

When  next  the  doctor  called  he  found  his  patient  so 
much  improved  that  he  could  but  remark  the  change. 

"Oh,  doctor,"  said  Nita,  "I  really  believe  I  am  going 
to  get  well.  I  don't  know  why,  doctor,  but  the  world 
seems  so  much  brighter  to  me  to-day.  Was  I  very  ill, 
doctor?" 

"Yes,  you  were  quite  ill  for  a  time,  Nita,  but  I  will  soon 
have  you  well  and  happy." 

"Yes.  doctor,  I  feel  that  I  will  be  well  and  very  happy 
again.  Doctor,  is  this  a  brighter  day  than  usual  ?  I  don't 
know  why,  but  it  does  seem  so  to  me.  I  am  very  weak, 
I  know,  but  I  just  feel  as  though  I  could  get  up  and  walk 
about." 

Mrs.  Alleyn  remarked  to  her  husband  that  evening: 
"Dr.  Herman  is  certainly  a  most  remarkable  physician! 
Have  you  noticed  how  Nita  has  improved  since  his  last 
visit?  The  change  is  marvelous!  The  nurse  tells  me 
that  all  that  despondency  is  gone,  and  that  Nita  never  ex 
claims,  as  she  has  all  along,  'Oh,  why  did  they  bring  me 
back !'  The  nurse  says  she  has  never  seen  so  remarka 
ble  a  recovery.  Charles,  do  you  think  we  could  mention 
Clarence's  sad  taking  off  to  her?" 


264  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

"My  dear,  I  am  surprised  that  could  ask  that  question. 
Why,  in  her  weak  state  of  mind  it  would  surely  bring  on 
a  return  of  the  fever,  and  yon  know  what  a  relapse  is !" 

"Forgive  me.     I  see  it  would  never  do." 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

When  the  heart  is  glad,  the  eye  sees  naught  but  the  beau 
tiful,  and  the  ear  hears  nothing  that  is  not  pleasing. 

In  a  few  days  Nita  was  so  far  recovered  that  she  could 
ride  out  with  her  father  and  mother.  On  their  first  drive 
they  met  Edward.  He  had  not  seen  her  since  her  re 
covery.  Nita  involuntarily  called  to  the  driver  to  stop. 
"Mr.  DeHertbern,  we  are  so  glad  to  see  you !  I  am 
almost  well  again.  I  feel  like  a  little  child,  this  bright 
morning.  It  has  been  so  long  since  I  was  out  that  I 
quite  thoroughly  enjoy  the  drive.  You  must  run  in  to 
see  us." 

"I  propose  returning  to  America  shortly." 
"Oh,  no,  Edw — Mr.  DeHertbern,  I  mean;  we  cannot 
allow  you  to  go  for  a  long  while  yet.     Just  to  think  of  it ! 
The  bandits  might  capture  me  again,  and  who  could  rescue 
me  as  you  did?" 

"Oh,"  laughed  Edward,  "in  case  they  should  want  you 
to  brighten  their  camp  again,  send  me  word  and  I  will 
sail  across  and  deliver  you  back  to  Milan,  but  I  will  not 
go  as  a  minstrel  the  next  time.  They  will  never  again 
trust  a  minstrel,  however  despondent  their  captive  maid 
ens  may  become." 

"Come,  then,"  said  Nita,  "as  a  knight  errant !" 
"Seeking    his    fair    lady?"    inquired    Edward — hardly 
thinking  of  the  full  meaning  of  the  question. 

265 


266  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

"Yes,  with  a  hope  of  her  rescue.  We  will  look  for  you 
this  evening." 

And  they  drove  away,  Nita  smiling  back  at  him  with 
a  look  he  had  never  before  seen  on  her  face. 

And  yet  this  was  she  who  was  to  be  the  bride  of  an 
other!  Edward  could  not  understand.  In  her  delirium 
she  had  spoken  of  "Clarence;"  he  it  must  be  who  is  the 
"another."  That  she  does  not  love  that  other  he  knew, 
and  that  she  does  love  himself  Edward  is  convinced. 
"She  spoke  of  a  will,  and  that  it  said  she  could  never  be 
mine ;  how  could  anyone  know  me.  Ah !  it  was  but  the 
wild  fancies  of  a  delirious  mind !  Her  father  has  told  me 
that  she  is  to'  be  another's !  I  will  go  away.  Why  remain 
here  ?  It  were  a  kindness  to  her  that  she  see  me  no  more 
if  she  love  me ;  and  if  she  can  never  be  mine,  why  remain 
where  I  must  see  the  object  I  can  never  hope  to  gain?  I 
will  see  her  once  more,  and  then  bid  goodby  to  Milan  and 
all  that  it  holds  dear  to  me."  And  the  same  old  sadness 
was  on  his  face. 

Edward  had  told  the  Count  that  he  would  soon  go  back 
to  America.  The  Count  asked  not  why,  for  he  knew,  as 
Edward  had  told  him  that  Nita  could  never  be  his;  that 
she  was  to  be  the  bride  of  another. 

Nita  was  in  her  best  spirits  that  evening.  Her  carriage 
drive  had  started  again  the  color  in  her  cheeks.  The 
world  seemed  to  have  taken  on  a  brighter  hue ;  the  flowers 
were  more  brilliant,  the  birds  in  the  parks  had  sweeter 
notes,  and  appeared  happier  in  their  songs  than  she  had 
ever  before  heard  them.  The  people  whom  they  met,  even 
the  tired  workmen  on  their  way  home  seemed  more  joy 
ous  than  she  had  ever  remembered  seeing  them.  Ah  ! 
when  the  heart  is  glad  the  eye  sees  naught  but  the  beauti 
ful,  and  the  ear  hears  nothing  that  is  not  pleasing. 

Was  it  the  drive  alone  that  had  started  that  color  ting- 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  267 

ling  into  her  cheek  again  ?  Was  it  that  she  had  recovered 
from  her  serious  illness  that  caused  her  heart  to  feel  so 
light?  Could  it  not  have  been  that  she  felt  the  release 
from  a  marriage  so  wholly  saddening  to  her?  And  yet, 
even  though  she  were  released  from  a  union  that  could 
never  bring  her  a  day's  happiness,  she  still  could  not  mar 
ry  the  one  whom  she  could  love,  as  that  awful  will  said  no 
American  could  be  her  husband.  While  Nita  sat  waiting 
for  Edward,  happy  and  yet  at  times  sad  in  her  contempla 
tions,  her  father  came  in,  holding  a  voluminous  paper  in 
his  hand. 

"Nita,"  said  he,  "I  have  just  received  from  England  a 
•  copy  of  my  father's  will,  and  in  it  I  find  a  strange  wording 
at  the  point  referring  to  you,  where  you  are  prohibited 
marrying  an  American ;  there  is  what  is  called  a  codicil, 
something  thought  of  after  the  body  of  the  will  had  been 
written.  Listen  to  what  it  says :  that  you  may  marry  an 
American  under  certain  conditions,  only  in  the  event  of 
Lord  Clarence  Agiionby's  death.  Those  conditions  are 
that  if  an  American,  who  can  trace  a  true  line  back  to  our 
family  tree,  should  ask  your  hand  in  marriage  he  may  be 
accepted.  It  also  says  that  the  estate  which  was  to  have 
gone  to  Lord  Clarence  Aglionby  "shall  go  to  the  husband 
of  my  beloved  granddaughter  Anita." 

"Why,  father,"  said  Nita,  "he  had  as -well  left  off  that 
codicil.  In  the  first  place,  the  Americans  are  so  proud  of 
their  own  country  that  they  claim  no  family  tree  which 
was  not  grown  on  American  soil.  In  the  second  place, 
they  do  not  keep  records  as  you  in  England  keep  them. 
And,  thirdly,  as  the  minister  would  say,  did  your  father 
think  that  I  should  ever  meet  and  love  the  possible  one  in 
the  thousands  of  families  in  America?  I  had  always 
thought  of  my  dear  old  grandfather  as  a  man  very  sedate, 
verv,  verv  serious,  vet  he  must  have  had  in  him  a  large 


268  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

vein  of  humor  to  put  into  not  only  his  'last  will  and  testa 
ment'  but  in  the  very  end  of  it,  a  bit  of  humor  that  would 
be  quite  amusing  if  it  were  not  so  serious  to  me  in  its 
results.  I  wish  you  had  not  spoken  to  me  of  this." 


CHAPTER   XLVIII. 

''When    in    thy   dreaming  moons  like  these  shall  shine 

again, 

And  daylight  beaming  prove  thy  dreams  are  vain, 
Wilt  thou  not,  relenting,  for  thine  absent  lover  sigh, 
In  t/iy  heart  consenting  to  a  prayer  gone  by?" 

Edward,  too,  had  that  day  received  an  important  letter. 
It  was  from  his  sister,  Beatrice.  She  had  much  to  tell  him 
of  all  the  family,  each  member  coming  in  for  a  small 
notice,  with  much  of  the  rest  devoted  to  Bill,  but  what  in 
terested  Edward  most  was  what  Beatrice  said  of  an  old 
maid  aunt,  who  was  then  visiting  at  his  home  in  New 
York.  The  letter,  referring  to  the  aunt,  said :  "Aunt  Sa- 
mantha  is  here.  She  came  up  from  Kentucky  a  few  days 
after  you  went  away.  She  is  just  as  queer  as  ever,  always 
fussing  about  family  trees  and  'coats  of  arms'  and  'es 
cutcheons/  and  I  don't  know  what  all  that  is  odd.  She 
says  we  were  once  a  great  family  in  England.  I  am  sat 
isfied  with  our  present  family.  She  made  me  use  her 
writing  paper.  She  says  what  is  the  good  of  having  a 
'coat  of  arms'  without  wearing  it.  'It'  is  one  of  aunt's 
jokes ;  she  calls  it  'it,'  then  laughs  and  explains  it :  'coat — • 
wear  it.  See?  Ha,  ha.'  She  is  old  and  childish,  so  we 
all  try  to  humor  her,  but  really,  Ed,  she  says  this  is  our 
coat  of  arms.  She  has  the  longest  list  of  names.  Why, 
she  can  run  back  for  generations,  and  has  old  papers, 
books  and  things  to  prove  all  she  says.  We  often  ask 

269 


2/0  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

what  good  is  all  this,  and  she  laughs  and  says :  'Oh,  it's 
no  trouble  to  me,  and  it  may  come  useful  some  time ;  we 
never  know.'  Say,  Ed,  you  have  no  idea  of  all  the  fuss 
the  papers  are  just  now  making  over  you  and  the  Count, 
who  rescued  that  English  girl.  Why,  one  of  them  had 
you  all  pictured  out.  You  were  fighting  five  men  at  once, 
while  the  Count,  who  had  just  killed  two  bandits,  was  sit 
ting  there  watching  you.  Ed,  they  were  wood  cuts,  and 
if  you  looked  just  a  little  bit  like  your  picture  I  would  dis 
own  you.  Everybody  is  asking  me  how  you  came  to  be 
there,  in  the  bandit  country.  I  tell  them  all  I  know ;  that 
you  had  gone  to  Milan  to  visit  Count  Drasco,  and  when 
they  ask  why  you  and  the  Count  were  minstrels,  I  say :  I 
guess  it  was  because  you  \vanted  to  see  the  country  of  the 
bandits,  and  thought  the  safest  way  to  go  was  as  minstrels. 
Now,  there,  Ed,  wasn't  that  a  brilliant  idea  of  mine?  Bill 
says  he  couldn't  have  thought  of  it  himself. 

"The  girls  say :  'The  first  thing  you  know,  that  brother 
of  yours  will  lose  his  heart  to  that  English  girl.'  Ed, 
really  now,  is  she  as  beautiful  as  all  the  papers  say  ?  Your 
New  York  girls  are  getting  real  jealous  of  her  already. 
Miss  Kittie — you  know  who  I  mean — asked  me  yester 
day:  'Beatrice,  when  is  your  brother  Edward  coming 
home?  Wasn't  his  going  rather  sudden?'  Say,  Ed,  you 
should  have  heard  Kit  ask  the  question.  She  wras  very 
serious !  She  called  you  'Edward.'  Think,  Ed,  of  Kittie 
calling  you  'Edward.'  She  acted  as  though  your  going 
were  any  of  her  affair.  Oh,  when  are  you  coming  home  ? 
You  have  been  gone  two  ages !  Ed,  when  you  were  'as 
sassinated'  we  all  cried  for  a  week:  then  we  found  it 
wasn't  you,  but  the  cry  did  us  good.  You  know^,  we  girls 
have  to  cry  so  much  each  year,  anyhow.  Now  I  will  not 
have  to  weep  for  two  years  to  come.  So  you  see  what  we 
think  of  our  big,  'giant  killer'  brother.  Helen,  when  she 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


271 


reads  now,  gets  down  her  book,  and  it's  all  about  'Ed,  the 
Giant  Killer.'  'Jack'  plays  no  part  any  more.  Say,  Ed, 
just  for  fun,  give  my  love  to  my  new  sister.  I  always  was 
a  tease,  so  you  must  forgive  me  this.  Here  is  Aunt  Sa- 
mantha,  who  sends  so  many  messages  to  you  that  if  I 
wrote  them  all  out  you  would  grow  tired  reading  them. 
You  know,  Ed,  she  is  very  rich.  Father  says  she  has 
spent  thousands  of  dollars  tracing  out  our  family.  Bill 
says  it's  hard  to-  tell  whether  she  has  been  running  a 
nursery  or  the  timber  business ;  at  any  rate,  'Trees'  have 
figured  largely  in  her  life.  You  should  see  her  room ;  she 
has  family  trees  from  the  size  of  this  sheet  on  which  I  am 
writing  up  to  one  that  covers  half  of  one  side  of  her  room. 
'Yes,  aunt,  I  will  tell  him.'  She  wants  me  to  say  she 
wishes  you  were  here ;  that  she  knows  you  would  be  in 
terested  in  her  life  work.  I  don't  believe  she  thinks  we 
take  much  interest  in  it.  Don't  tell  her  I  said  so.  but  she 
is  right :  we  don't.  There  are  too  many  other  things  of 
importance  to  think  of.  'What  is  it,  auntie?'  What  do 
you  think,  Ed ;  she  has  just  made  me  promise  that  I  will 
send  you  a  book  in  which  our  family  is  shown  as  running 
back  to  William  the  Conqueror.  She  says  she  had  a  man 
at  work  on  it  for  two  years.  Most  of  that  time  he  spent 
in  England.  When  you  write,  Ed,  you  must  make  a  'fuss' 
over  it.  I  know  it  will  please  the  dear  old  soul.  It  may 
bore  you,  but  she  is  old,  and,  as  it  is  the  sole  object  of  her 
life,  we  must  look  over  it  in  her." 

And  Edward  had  received  the  book.  He  hardly  gave  it 
a  passing  glance.  Beatrice  was  right.  It  was  a  bore  to 
him  ;  but  he  would  write  some  nice  things  to  tell  Aunt 
Samantha  and  thank  her  for  her  remembering  him. 

It  was  time  now  that  he  should  make  his  promised  call. 
He  wished  it  was  over.  He  was  afraid  of  himself — afraid 
he  might  forget  that  Nita  was  another's,  and  say  things 


272  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

he  would  regret.  No,  he  would  talk  only  on  the  common 
places,  and  not  risk  dangerous  ground.  Did  lover  ever 
talk  only  commonplace  in  the  presence  of  her  whom  he 
loved,  even  though  he  knew  she  was  another's?  Not 
when  that  lover  knew  that  he  was  the  one  loved. 

Never  had  he  seen  Nita  so  beautiful  as  she  was  that 
night.  Her  dress,  the  surroundings,  the  light  shaded  to 
bring  out  all  the  charm  of  coloring,  her  manner  toward 
him,  everything  went  to  make  him  forget  all  else  than  that 
he  was  completely  enchanted.  He  forgot  commonplace 
the  moment  he  entered  her  presence. 

"And  is  my  fair  lady  waiting  to  be  rescued  again?" 

"For  a  whole  hour  has  she  waited.,  and  it  has  seemed 
very  long  to  her." 

"Her  knight  wished  not  to  manifest  unseemly  haste." 

"Unseemly  haste  can  never  be  charged  to  her  knight." 
And  thus  they  ran  on  smilingly. 

"Mr.  DeHertbern,  you  have  never  told  me  why  you  and 
the  Count  played  so  well  the  part  of  knight  errants  of  old 
to  me,  a  stranger  to  you." 

"And  are  you  a  stranger  to  me  ?" 

"I  was  then.     You  had  never  even  seen  me  before." 

"My  counterpart  may  have  seen  you,  and  I  but  took  his 
place,  perhaps." 

"If  so,  you  have  done  him  credit.'' 

"Tell  me  again  of  my  counterpart.    What  was  he  like  ?" 

"I  have  told  you  that  I  could  not  describe  him." 

"And  yet  you  saw  him  ?" 

"I  saw  him,  and  I  did  not  see  him.  We  were  together 
in  the  depths  of  an  Egyptian  tomb.  The  surroundings 
were  so  strange  and  weird  that  I  could  think,  at  the  time, 
of  naught  but  their  very  weirdness." 

"And  did  he  see  you,  behind  your  veil  ?" 

"What,  Mr.  DeHertbern,  can  you  know  of  the  veil  ?" 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


273 


Edward  had  forgotten  the  part  he  was  playing,  but  he 
tried  to  correct  the  misstep. 

"Were  you  not  veiled  in  that  terrible  climate?" 

"Oh,  yes;  but  not  in  the  tomb." 

"Tell  me  more  of  that  meeting.  For  my  counterpart's 
sake,  1  would  know  all." 

"There  is  but  little  to  relate  that  I  have  not  told  you." 

"You  have  said  that  while  you  had  no  remembrance  of 
the  face,  yet  you  have  sought  to  find  it  again.  How  did 
you  hope  to  find  that  of  which  you  had  no  remembrance  ?" 

"Ah,  Mr.  DeHertbern,  I  know  not,  yet  would  I  seek  it." 

"Will  you  forgive  me  if  I  ask  why  you  should  seek  that 
face,  when  it  can  never  be  to  you  more  than  a  face,  since 
you  yourself  are  another's?" 

"Air.  DeHertbern,  you  speak  in  riddles.  I  am  not  an 
other's." 

"You  are  not  another's  ?  Why,  your  father  has  told  me 
that  you  are  to  be  the  wife  of  a  countryman  of  yours." 

"Poor  Clarence  is  no  more.  He  met  the  fate  which 
you  so  nearly  met." 

"And  \vas  it  Lord  Aglionby,  the  unfortunate  young 
man?" 

"It  was  he.  Pie,  too,  sought  to  rescue  me,  as  I  have 
learned.  And,  lest  you  think  me  unkind  to  seem  so  soon 
to  forget  him,  I  will  tell  you  that  it  would  have  been  a 
union  without  a  heart.  In  England  the  woman  too  often 
has  no  choice." 

Edward  now  felt  that  he  could  reveal  himself,  and  tell 
her  that  there  was  no  counterpart. 

"And  tell  me  again,  what  if  you  could  meet  and  know 
that  face  you  met  in  the  tomb?" 

"I  have  a  thousand  times  asked  myself  that  same  ques 
tion,  and  can  find  no  answer,  and  yet  have  ever  sought  to 
find  it!" 


274  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

"If  I  could  reveal  to  you  the  mystery,  might  I  claim  the 
reward?" 

"I  do  not  understand' — 'mystery?'  'reward?'  No,  I 
cannot  fathom  your  meaning." 

"You  told  me  once  that  you  saw  in  the  minstrel  that 
face.  You  saw  aright,  for,  Nita,  it  was  my  face  you  saw 
in  the  Egyptian  tomb  !" 

"Oh,  cruel,  cruel  fate !"  exclaimed  Nita,  her  face  almost 
white  with  the  excitement  of  the  revelation.  She  had 
sought  for  a  year  to  find  a  face  which,  when  found, 
brought  her  only  grief.  Edward  could  not  understand 
the  cause  of  her  exclamation,  but  waited. 

"Oh,  Edward,  what  can  I  do?  The  fate  that  bound  me 
to  one  I  did  not  love  bars  my  heart  from  where  it  would 
go.  I  can  never  know  you  save  as  a  friend  who  has 
risked  his  life  to  save  mine,  a  friend  for  whom  I  would 
willingly  give  my  life.  You  cannot  understand.  The  will 
that  bound  me  to  Lord  Aglionby  also  says  I  may  never  be 
yours,  for  you  are  an  American,  and  I  can  never  marry 
an  American."  And  to  show  to  him  how  fate  had  shut 
them  out  from  each  other,  she  went  and  brought  the  will, 
and  they  read  together  the  fatal  part. 

"But  see,"  said  Edward,  "this  codicil." 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  it,  and  aside  from  the  impossible  there 
is  nothing  in  it." 

"Wait,"  said  he,  as  he  thought  of  Aunt  Samantha's 
book,  which  he  had  with  him.  "I  have  this  day  received 
a  letter  and  a  book  from  my  sister.  The  impossible  may 
be  made  possible.  We  will  see."  And  together  they  sat 
and  looked  over  that  book  as  no  one  had  ever  before 
looked  it  over. 

"Why,  there,"  said  Nita,  "at  the  very  first  page  is  our 
coat  of  arms.  And  here,  see,,  name  after  name  which  are 
familiar  ones  to  me. 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


275 


"Come,  father,  see  this  wonderful  book  that  Edward 
has  received." 

As  Mr.  Alleyn  came  in,  the  greatest  surprise  was  to 
hear  his  daughter  calling  Mr.  DeHertbern  "Edward,"  but 
when  he  saw  the  book  and  realized  what  it  contained,  he 
could  scarcely  believe  so  wonderful  a  thing  could  be. 

He  saw  that  Burke  had  never  written  or  compiled  one 
more  accurate. 

It  was  fully  agreed  that  there  was  no  bar  now7.  Edward 
might  claim  his  "queen,"  and  Xita  need  search  no  longer 
in  vain  for  the  "face"  she  had  seen  in  the  tomb. 

Taking  up  Nita's  guitar,  Edward  sang  the  one  chorus 
he  had  left  out  the  night  of  the  last  "concert"  in  the  ban 
dit  camp: 

"Nita,  Juanita,  let  me  linger  by  thy  side; 
Nita,  Juanita,  be  my  own  fair  bride." 


CHAPTER  NUN. 

The  spacious  DeHertbern  mansion  was  far  too  small,  and 
the  greatest  hotel  in  the  city  was  engaged  for  the 
occasion. 

Now  that  every  obstacle  has  been  removed,  and  Ed 
ward  and  Anita  are  happy  in  each  other's  love,  you  will 
scarcely  wish  to  go  with  them  back  to  the  Alleyn  ancestral 
halls  in  England,  where  they  were  quietly  married,  or  to 
follow  them  across  to  New  York,  where  was  given  to 
them  a  royal  welcome,  or  to  read  of  the  many  pretty 
things  said  of  Edward's  beautiful  bride.  Suffice  it  that 
all  these  things  happened  in  their  order.  The  reception 
given  by  the  DeHertberns  in  honor  of  their  new  daughter 
was  an  event  which  New  York  has  not  yet  forgotten,  as 
no  reception  in  this  city  of  great  affairs  has  equaled  it  in 
magnificence.  Nothing  was  talked  of  for  a  month  before 
in  the  higher  social  circles  but  the  DeHertbern  reception, 
and  it  long  remained  a  theme  of  general  comment. 

A  description  of  its  grandeur  would  take  a  pen  more 
used  than  mine  to  such  work. 

The  spacious  DeHertbern  mansion  was  far  too  small, 
and  the  greatest  hotel  in  the  city  was  engaged  for  the  oc 
casion.  Florists  and  decorators  were  many  days  at  work 
in  turning  this  great  house  into  a  veritable  palace  of  flow 
ers.  The  best  orchestras  were  engaged  to  furnish  the 
music.  The  guests,  even  though  so  used  to  the  beautiful 
in  elaborate  entertainment,  had  never  seen  anything  of  the 

276 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


277 


kind,  for  nothing  on  so  vast  a  scale  had  before  been  at 
tempted  in  America.  Guests  were  there  from  almost 
every  large  city  in  the  land.  During  the  whole  night  I 
felt  as  one  turned  loose  in  fairyland.  It  was  the  first 
reception  of  any  kind  I  had  ever  seen.  I  was  at  a  loss  to 
know  how  to  fully  enjoy  it.  The  night  the  "Actor"  took 
me  to  the  theatre  1  was  bewildered  by  the  "diamonds" 
worn  by  the  "fairies"  on  the  stage.  To  me  the  jewels 
were  real,  as  was  the  play,  but  the  Actor,  far  too  practical, 
said :  "Those  illusive  baubles  are  but  glass — and  Pitts- 
burg  glass  at  that."  He  called  it  "glahs."  But  here  I 
wandered  from  room  to  room,  from  floor  to  floor,  and 
back  again,  and  wherever  I  went  diamonds  dazzled  my 
eyes.  Diamonds,  whole  mines  of  them,  it  seemed, 
sparkled  everywhere  that  night,  and  real  ones,  too,  for  Bill 
told  me.  "These  people  do-  not  need  to  resort  to  shams. 
"Why,"'  said  he,  "do  you  know,  Rube,  that  the  wealth  rep 
resented  here  to-night  would  pay  the  national  debt?" 
When  I  told  the  Anarchist,  at  the  boarding-house,  what 
Bill  had  said,  he  replied  bitterly : 

"If  the  Government  had  to  depend  upon  this  wealth,  the 
debt  would  not  be  reduced  much,  for  by  the  time  these 
rich  men  were  through  'swearing  off'  there  would  be  but 
little  left."  Tom  was  very  severe.  I  did  not  believe  him 
— then. 

Wherever  I  turned,  in  whatever  room,  hallway  or  par 
lor,  soft,  sweet  music  seemed  to  fill  the  very  air  with  a 
joy  which  I  had  never  dreamed  was  meant  for  earth. 
Music,  music  everywhere,  but  not  a  player  to  be  seen. 
How  different  to  the  dances  at  Highmont,  where  the  one 
prominent  personage  was  the  fiddler;  or,  if  at  a  wedding, 
he  might  possibly  share  the  honors  with  the  bride — if  she 
were  pretty. 

Even-  florist  in  New  York  had  contributed  his  stock  of 


278  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

roses  and  rare  flowers,  but  the  supply  was  to  meagre,  and 
other  cities  were  called  upon  to  complete  the  decoration. 
Grottoes  of  roses,  bowers  of  palms,  walls  festooned  with 
orchids — the  whole  one  bewildering  sight  of  rare  beauty. 

"What  of  the  people  who  were  there?"  Ah,  I  scarcely 
made  a  note  of  them,  save  as  they  blocked  my  way  through 
Fairyland.  It  seemed  that  I  could  have  lived  on  forever, 
as  in  some  "enchanted  palace;"  but  morning  came,  the 
lights  were  extinguished  and  the  guests  had  all  departed, 
and  I  went  out  and  took  up  again  the  burdens  of  real  life. 
But  the  remembrance  of  that  night  still  haunts  me.,  and 
fills  me  with  a  pleasure  untold.  The  flowers,  the  music, 
the  diamonds  that  glittered  on  beautiful  women,  and, 
above  all,  was  I  impressed  with  Edward's  bride,  whom  I 
had  seen  but  once  before  since  her  arrival.  Her  beauty 
was  so  rare  that  other  women  forgot  to  envy  in  their  ad 
miration  of  her.  Tall  and  with  a  bearing  that  seemed,  to 
my  notion,  regal,  and  yet  so  gentle  and  simple  in  manner 
that  she  'won  every  heart.  Once  during  the  evening, 
when  Bill  and  I  were  together,  he  asked :  "Rube,  did  you 
ever  see  a  face  that  reminded  you  of  Edward's  bride?" 

"No,"  I  replied,  "and  never  expect  to." 

"Well,  said  he_,  "she  has  features  that  remind  me  of 
Anita  Leighton." 

'What!"  I  exclaimed,  "your  Xita  of  Highmont?  Your 
imagination  must  indeed  be  vivid  to-night.  Bill.  Why, 
that  little  mountain  lass  could  never  have  hoped  to  become 
the  queen  we  see  to-night.'' 

"You  mistake  my  meaning.  I  but  spoke  of  a  slight 
resemblance,  and  not  that  it  could  be  Xita  Leighton — 
only  that  the  bride  reminds  me  of  her." 

I  could  not  but  think  how  true  it  is  that  we  never  en 
tirely  forget  our  first  love,  and  in  after  years  attribute  to 
her  rare  qualities  of  beauty  in  face  and  character. 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


279 


The  echoes  of  the  DeHertbern  reception  rang  up  and 
down  throughout  the  length  and  hreadth  of  the  land. 
Ministers  took  it  as  a  text,  and  preached  against  the  ex 
travagance  of  wealth.  The  newspapers  condemned  it  as 
ostentatious  display  of  riches  and  as  setting  the  poor 
against  the  wealthy  class.  Nothing  was  talked  of  at  our 
table  for  a  whole  week.  I  tried  to  defend  it,  but  was  all 
alone  in  the  defense. 

"Do  you  know/'  I  asked,  "that  all  those  beautiful  flow 
ers  were  distributed  among  the  hospitals  and  sent  to  the 
poor  of  the  city?" 

"And  do  you  think,"  asked  Tom,  "that  the  poor  ap 
preciate  flowers  cast  to  them  as  no  longer  of  use  to  the 
millionaire?  It  but  makes  them  feel  the  depth  of  their 
poverty  to  know  that  what  would  be  life  to  them  can  be 
thrown  awray  as  useless.  They  feel  that  the  God  who 
made  us  all  is  unjust  to  give  to  the  rich  untold  luxury  and 
deprive  them  of  the  bare  necessities  of  existence,  and  a 
display  such  as  this  reception  but  intensifies  that  feeling 
and  embitters  their  lives.  No,  my  friend,  these  poor,  who 
dearly  love  flowers,  who>  would  go>  miles  for  a  simple  wild 
blossom,  would  trample  under  their  feet  the  rarest  orchid 
cast  to  them  by  the  rich." 

I  learned  later  that  Mr.  DeHertbern  had  kept  an  ac 
curate  account  of  the  money  spent  on  this  occasion,  and 
had  quietly  distributed  in  charity  a  like  amount.  For  this 
the  world  gave  him  no  credit,  for  the  world  did  not  know 
of  it. 


CHAPTER  L. 
THE;  DANCE;  IN  THE;  BARN. 

Oh,  the  joy  of  that  night!     It  comes  back  to  me  as  an 

opiate  dream. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ruben,  my  new  sister  knows  the  most 
stories !"  began  Helen  one  evening  shortly  after  the  recep 
tion,  as  Bill  and  I  were  entering  the  DeHertberns'  home. 
"Yes,  and  she  never  gets  tired  telling  me  everything  I 
want  to  know  about.  She  is  just  like  you  and  Tousin 
Wallie.  She  used  to  live  in  a  wee  bit  of  a  town  like  you 
did,  when  she  was  little  like  I  am,  and,  Mr.  Ruben,  her 
stories  sound  just  like  yours.  Her  little  town  was  in  the 
mountains,  and  had  a  creek,  and  one  street  and  a  tavern, 
and  she  told  me  about  two  little  girls  what  had  two  big 
dogs  and  played  with  rag  dolls,  and  hadn't  any  nurse. 
Oh,  ain't  it  jolly  to  have  a  new  sister  who  knows  so  much 
and  likes  to  tell  it?  Oh,,  Mr.  Ruben,  when  she  comes  in 
the  parlor  to-night  you  must  get  her  to  tell  about  a  dance 
she  went  to  in  somebody's  barn.  She  comes  in  the  parlor 
now,  since  the  reception,  and  you  will  see  her  to-night. 
Brother  Edward  said  that  new  brides  don't  come  in  the 
parlor  to  see  people  before  they  have  receptions — that's 
why  you  didn't  see  her  before.  For  a  long  while  Edward 
and  my  new  sister  didn't  see  anybody  but  each  other, 
even  when  other  people  were  around,  too ;  but  they  are 
now  like  a  smart  baby,  Belle  says.  Belle  is  my  nurse, 

280 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  28l 

what  papa  brought  from  Kentucky.  Her  mother  was  a 
real  slave  that  papa's  uncle  used  to  own.  Yes,  Belle  says 
they  are  like  a  new  baby,  that  is,  just  beginning  to  'no 
tice.'  Now  mind,  Mr.  Ruben,  you  mustn't  tell  her  I  told 
you  anything.  Sister  Beatrice  says  little  girls  should  not 
tell  things,  but  you  don't  count,  do  you,  Mister  Ruben? 
No,  you  don't  count."  'Twas  always  so.  I  don't  count 
for  anything,  and  thus  hear  many  things  I  love  to  listen  to. 

During  the  evening  Edward  and  his  bride  came  into 
the  parlor.  We  were  introduced,,  but  I  am  sure  the  bride 
took  so  little  note  of  us  that  she  could  not  have  heard 
our  names  even,  but  later  on  she  became  so  entertaining 
that  we  all  stopped  talking  to  listen  to  her  tell  of  the  many 
places  and  peoples  she  had  seen. 

"Tell  some  of  the  stories  you  told  me,  won't  you,  my 
new  sister?" 

"Now,  Helen,"  said  Beatrice,  "you  know  what  I  said 
about  little  children !" 

"Yes,  I  know ;  but  I  don't  want  you  to  hear  me.  I 
want  sister  to  tell  about  when  she  was  a  little  girl  and 
lived  in  the  little  town  in  the  big  mountains  and  went  to 
the  dance  in  that  new  barn.  Oh,  it  was  so  very  funny. 
Now,  do  please  tell  us  about  it,  won't  you,  sister?" 

"Yes,  yes,  Helen ;  come  over  and  sit  by  me,  and  I  will 
tell  you  all  about  that  dance !" 

"No,  I  don't  mean  that.  I  want  you  to  tell  all  of  us 
about  it." 

"Helen,  let  me  tell  you  of  the  little  girls  I  saw  away 
down  in  Egypt.  The  gentlemen  will  not  care  to  hear 
about  a  simple  country  dance." 

"Yes,  they  will,  for  they  used  to  live  in  the  country,  too. 
Don't  you  want  to  hear  it,  Tousin  Wallie?  I  know  Mis 
ter  Ruben  does." 

We  all  insisted,  and  the  story  began.     She  told  it  as 


282  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

though  entirely  for  Helen's  ears,  but  the  rest  were  a  most 
attentive  audience. 

"I  once  lived  in  a  little  mountain  village  so  far  removed 
from  the  outside  world  that  all  the  amusements  we  had 
were  the  simple  pleasures  we  could  get  up  among  our 
selves.  In  the  spring  we  would  visit  the  sugar  camps 
and  pull  the  'taffy'  made  from  boiling  down  the  sap  that 
came  from  the  great  maple  trees.  It  was  rare  sport,  and 
much  we  enjoyed  it.  In  the  summer  we  would  have  pic 
nics  away  off  in  some  quiet  valley  in  the  mountains,  and 
return  home  laden  with  wild  flowers — very  tired,  but, 
Helen,  we  were  very  happy.  When  the  summer  was  gone 
and  the  leaves  of  the  forest  had  begun  to  turn  all  colors 
of  red  and  yellow,  and  when  the  birds  had  started  on  their 
long  flight  to  their  winter  homes,  we  found  other  amuse 
ments — the  apple  cuttings — 

"What's  that?"  broke  in  Helen,  whose  large  eyes 
showed  in  their  brightness  how  deeply  she  was  interested. 

"Why,  Helen,  in  the  country  there  are  great  orchards 
of  apples.  The  trees  almost  break  down  with  their  heavy 
loads  of  fruit.  Early  in  the  season  there  are  a  great  many 
windfalls— 

"Windfall !"  exclaimed  Helen,  in  surprise.  "Why, 
sister,  that  is  what  papa  called  Mister  Ruben.  I  didn't 
know  men  were  apples.  Sometimes  a  great  man  is  called 
a  'peach/  but  I  never  knew  he  was  an  apple  before." 

"Helen,  you  are  a  very  funny  little  girl.  No,  the  'wind 
falls'  I  mean  are  the  apples  that  are  blown  off  the  trees  by 
the  wind." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Helen,  satisfied  with  the  explanation. 

"These  apples  are  picked  up  by  the  farmer.  Some  of 
them  he  hauls  away  in  wagons  to  the  mill,  where  they  are 
ground  and  the  juice  is  pressed  out  of  them.  This  juice 
is  what  they  call  cider.  The  farmer  has  it  put  into 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  283 

barrels  and  keeps  part  of  it  to  drink  in  the  winter.  It  is 
his  wine.  More  of  it  is  boiled  down  in  great  copper- 
lined  kettles,  and  when  it  is  thick,  almost  like  syrup,  apples 
that  have  been  cut  into  quarters  are  filled  in  to  make  a 
marmalade,  which  is  called  'apple  butter.'  Then  there  is 
another  use  to  which  the  fruit  is  put.  The  apples  are 
pared,  or,  as  they  call  it  in  the  country,  'peeled,"  quartered 
and  set  in  the  sun,  and  that  is  how  they  get  the  dried 
apples.  But  now  as  to  the  'apple  cuttings.'  Some 
fanner  who  likes  to  see  the  young  people  have  a  'good 
time'  sends  word  (he  does  not  write  a  note  of  invitation) 
to  everybody  to  come  to  his  'apple  cutting.'  This  'word' 
is  all  that  is  needed,  and  the  young  folks  come  for  miles 
around,  until  the  house  is  full.  An  'apple  cutting'  is  one 
of  the  few  places  where  'old  maids'  and  quiet  young  men 
are  most  welcome,  for  they  do  the  work  while  the  young 
folks  play.  When  the  'old  maids'  and  sedate  young  men 
have  finished  the  work,  everything  is  cleared  away,  and  a 
bountiful  supper  is  spread." 

"Do  the  'old  maids'  get  to  eat  at  the  'first  table'?"  broke 
in  Helen  again. 

''I  am  afraid  not,  Helen,  for  by  this  time  their  im 
portance  for  the  evening  is  over.  After  the  supper  the 
'fiddler'— 

"What's  that?" 

"Why,  Helen,  in  the  country  the  man  who  plays  the 
violin  is  called  a  'fiddler.'  Well,  this  man  gets  up  on  a 
barrel  or  some  high  place,  and  not  only  plays,  but  calls 
off  the  different  sets  for  the  dancing,  and  often  it  is  time 
for  breakfast  when  the  young  people  get  home. 

"Then  they  have  'corn  huskings,'  which  is  almost  like 
the  'apple  cuttings,'  only  that  all  the  young  people  work 
hard,  each  one  of  the  bovs  hunting  for  the  'red  ear,'  and 


284  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

each  one  of  the  girls  wishing  that  her  young  man  will 
find  it." 

''Why  does  she  wish  he  will  find  it?"  asked  Helen. 

At  this  the  bride  blushed  faintly  as  she  replied :  "Why, 
Helen,  the  young  man  who  finds  the  'red  ear'  gets  to  kiss 
his  girl." 

"Tousin  Wallie,  you  must  have  found  a  good  many 
'red  ears.' ': 

"Mamma,  mamma,"  cried  Beatrice,  "make  Helen  be 
quiet.  She  just  won't  let  sister  tell  the  story." 

"I  have  finished  the  story,  all  but  the  'spelling  matches/ 
sleighing  parties  and  school  exhibitions  which  they  have 
in  the  long  winter  nights." 

"Why,  sister,  you  haven't  told  a  word  about  that  dance 
in  the  barn !  That  was  the  very  story  they  all  wanted  to 
hear."  And  Helen  pleaded  so  hard  that  finally  the  bride 
began.  I  need  not  say  here  with  what  interest  I  drank 
in  every  \vord  of  the  recital  of  those  country  pleasures. 
Had  I  not  seen  them  all  at  Highmont?  But  to  hear  this 
great  lady  tell  of  them  as  a  part  of  her  life's  experience 
gave  to  them  a  zest  I  would  not  have  thought  possible. 
I  did  not  then  know  why,  but  Bill's  face  was  a  picture  to 
study.  He  seemed  not  to  be  present,  but  away  off  some 
where.  Was  he  thinking,  the  while,  that  he  and  Anita 
had  always  attended  those  pleasures  together ;  of  how 
fast  he  worked  at  the  "corn  huskings"  to  find  that  "red 
ear,"  and  of  the  reward  which  Anita  always  seemed  so 
willing  to  give  him?  But  to  the  story  of  the  DANCE  IN 

THE   BARN. 

"A  farmer  who  had  built  a  large  barn  a  few  miles  from 
the  village  sent  'word'  around  that  he  would  'dedicate'  it 
with  a  dance.  I  shall  never  forget  the  interest  we  took 
in  its  building.  Many  a  load  of  timber  the  young  men 
drew  for  nothing,  and  the  farmer's  wife  found  ready 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  285 

hands  among  the  girls  when  she  needed  extra  help  at  the 
'raising.'  The  interest  manifested  in  our  recent  recep 
tion  was  nothing  to  be  compared  to  the  great  preparation 
for  that  barn  dance.  The  stock  of  the  village  merchant 
was  taxed  to  its  utmost,  especially  the  ribbon  department. 
Some  of  the  well-to-do  sent  away  to  the  city  for  finery — 
possibly  to  make  envious  the  less  fortunate  among  their 
sisters.  The  preacher  devoted  half  his  sermon  hours  for 
weeks  to  tell  how  very,  very  wicked  it  was  to  dance,  and 
especially  so  in  a  barn,  but  the  only  effect  on  the  younger 
portion  of  his  hearers  was  to  provoke  smiles.  The  night 
came  at  last.  Could  you  have  seen  the  vehicles  that  car 
ried  the  merry  party  to  that  barn  you  would  have 
laughed.  The  boy  who  took  me  came  in  a  farm  wagon 
drawn  by  a  mule."  (A  start  from  Bill,  who  seemed  to 
waken,  as  from  a  dream.)  "Could  you  have  seen  how 
he  was  'dressed'  you  would  have  thought  it  was  for  a  part 
in  a  burlesque  show.  But  I  knew  no  difference,,  and  was 
happy.  The  preparation  the  farmer  had  made  was  on  a 
scale  never  before  seen  in  that  country.  Great  limbs  of 
cedar  covered  the  logs  or  beams,  wild  roses  hung  in 
festoons  along  the  sides  of  the  barn;  golden  rod — the 
whole  eighty  varieties,  it  seemed — covered  spaces  not 
filled  with  hollyhocks  and  sunflowers.  The  illumination 
was  so  brilliant  that  it  shone  out  into  the  night  for  miles 
in  every  direction  not  shut  out  by  the  hills.  He  had 
gathered  loads  of  pine  knots,  and,  placing  them  on  the 
four  sides  of  the  barn,  set  fire  to  them,  so  that  the  light 
dimmed  the  many  lard  lamps  burning  in  the  'ball-room.' 

"All  the  fiddlers  in  the  country  were  there  that  night. 
Such  music  (?)  I  had  never  heard  until  I  went  to  Egypt, 
But  what  cared  we  for  the  music !  Our  hearts  were  so 
light  that  we  could  waltz  even  though  the  fiddlers  played 
a  polka.  Oh,  the  joy  of  that  night!  It  comes  back  to 


286  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

me  as  an  opiate  dream!  And  yet  it  was  not  all  joy.  I 
remember  ho\v  scared  I  was  at  one  time.  A  young  man 
from  a  neighboring"  village  asked  me  for  a  waltz.  I  was 
about  to  accept,  when  the  boy  who  brought  me  whispered 
something  to  him,  and  they  went  out  together.  They 
were  gone  a  half  hour  when  the  boy  came  back,  and  such 
a  sight  he  was !  His  eyes  were  almost  closed,  and  he 
looked  as  though  he  had  been  thrown  into  the  creek.  He 
was  very  happy,  however,  as  he  told  me  the  young  man 
had  sent  word  that  he  had  reconsidered  his  invitation  to 
the  waltz. 

"It  mus  t  have  been  near  morning  when  we  left  the 
dance.  The  mule,  whether  from  standing  or  its  anxiety 
to  get  home  I  never  knew,  started  and  ran  as  I  have  never 
seen  a  mule  run  before  or  since.  The  wagon  box  seemed 
a  thing  of  life  as  it  bounded  up  and  down.  Everything 
that  could  get  loose  we  left  strewn  along  the  road.  The 
boy  held  on  to  the  lines  and  1  held  on  to  the  boy,  whilst 
the  mule  held  the  middle  of  the  road,  until  we  had  reached 
a  point  half  way  to  the  village,  when  it  must  have  thought 
of  a  nearer  way  home,  and  started  across  the  fields,  down 
a  steep  hill,  at  the  bottom  of  which  it  found  a  deep  ditch. 
Across  this  it  jumped,  but  the  wagon  not  being  so  light, 
stopped  short,  and  for  aught  I  know  is  there  to  this  day." 

"Oh,  Tousin  Wallie,  ain't  that  a  funny  story !"  From 
the  look  on  Bill's  face  I  knew  he  thought  it  anything  but 
funny.  I  also  knew  that  this  great  lady  was  none  other 
than  our  own  village  belle,  Anita  Leighton ! 

"Sister,  where  is  that  boy  now?  Does  he  live  at  the 
little  village  yet?" 

"No,  Helen,  soon  after  this  he  went  away  to  the  great 
city  and  forgot  all  about  me.  I  left  the  little  town  and 
have  never  heard  of  him  since." 

"Oh,  what  would  he  think  if  he  could  see  you  now — 


MY   FRIEND    BILL.  287 

wouldn't  he  be  sorry  he  forgot  you  ?"     Anita  only  smiled 
as  she  and  Edward  bid  us  good  night  and  left  the  room. 

I  had  never  known  Bill  so  quiet  as  he  was  on  the  way 
back  to  our  rooms  that  night.  Our  surprise  on  learning 
that  she  was  our  own  Anita  was  naught  to  be  compared 
to  hers  on  learning  that  the  handsome  young  gentleman 
who  had  listened  to  her  story  was  the  boy  who  had  taken 
her  to  the  dance  in  the  barn. 


CHAPTER  LI. 
The  proofs  of  the  possible  are  the  facts  that  exist. 

Ours  was  a  typical  New  York  boarding  house.  People 
came  and  went  so  fast  that  ere  long  I  was  classed  among 
the  old  boarders.  Tom,  the  Anarchist,  was  still  there, 
as  were  the  timid  young  man — whom  I  always  thought 
of  as  the  "Medal"  man — and  the  bald  headed  real  estate 
broker.  We  three  saw  much  of  each  other.  The 
"Medal"  man  was  now  seemingly  prosperous.  Tom  had 
interested  him  in  his  East  Side  work,  and  through  that 
he  was  called  to  preach  in  a  small  mission,  where  he  was 
much  loved  by  the  poor  who  made  up  his  congregation. 

Tom  and  I  used  often  to  sit  and  talk  far  into  the  night, 
for,  since  he  learned  that  I  was  preparing  for  the  pro 
fession  of  the  law,  he  took  much  interest  in  my  studies. 

"You  have  a  great  work  before  you,"  he  would  say; 
"a  very  great  work.  There  is  no  profession  in  which  the 
possibilities  for  good  are  so  grand,  and  yet  there  is  no 
profession  in  which  there  is  so  much  of  evil  practiced. 
The  greatest  statesmen  in  your  country  are  lawyers,  the 
greatest  orators,  too,  are  of  that  profession,  and  yet  some 
of  the  most  unscrupulous  men  are  in  that  calling — men 
who  would  rob  the  widow,  and  turn  the  orphan  into  the 
cold  world  with  scarce  a  coat  to  cover  him,  all  under  the 
cloak  of  legal  right.  How  I  long  to  see  the  time  when 
justice  may  be  found  outside  the  covers  of  the  diction 
ary  !" 

288 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  289 

I  tried  to  change  the  course  of  his  mind,  but  I  could 
not.  This  man  who  was  giving  up  his  life  to  the  poor 
seemed  to  feel  that  our  system  was  all  wrong. 

"You  have  too  many  and  too  intricate  laws,"  he  con 
tinued,  not  noticing  my  interruption.  "Laws  made  by 
incompetent  men.  In  this  country  the  rule  is  to  send 
your  least  able  men  to  represent  yon  in  your  assemblies 
and  representative  halls,  men  whose  abilities,  in  many  in 
stances,  you  would  not  trust  to  try  a  petty  case  before  a 
country  'Squire.'  Your  assemblies  meet  too  often — once 
in  two  years  instead  of  every  year  would  be  far  better." 

"But  then,"  said  I,  "suppose  a  bad  law  be  passed,  it 
must  remain  on  the  statute  books  two  whole  years  before 
it  could  be  repealed." 

"Ah,  that  is  the  point  I  wish  to  prove.  Send  men  of 
judgment,  men  who  cannot  be  paid  to  make  a  bad  law, 
and  it  will  not  have  to  be  repealed.  In  your  present  sys 
tem  every  Assemblyman  or  Congressman  feels  that  he  is 
not  appreciated  by  his  constituents  unless  he  put  through 
a  number  of  measures,  even  though  these  measures  may 
have  to  be  repealed  the  next  year. 

"I  knew  a  Kansas  Congressman  who  once  got  $20,000 
appropriated  to  spend  on  trying  to  make  the  Arkansas 
River  navigable.  The  money  was  spent  with  all  the  pro 
digality  of  public  funds.  Cotton  wood  poles  were  driven 
into  the  sand  along  the  edges  of  the  proposed  channel 
rind  brush  interwoven." 

"Did  it  answer  the  purpose?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  yes.  he  was  re-elected  by  an  increased  majority, 
but  one  could  wade  across  the  river  as  easily  as  before. 
His  constituents  got  the  benefit  of  the  money  and  said  not 
a  word,  while  the  country  either  knew  nothing  about  it  or 
got  the  impression  that  Wichita  had  been  made  a  steam 
boat  landing,  all  for  $20,000. 


290  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

"I  would  have  less  government.  Each  year  new  offices 
are  made,  that  the  leaders  may  place  their  'heelers,'  as  you 
call  them.  In  many  instances  one  man  could  till  the  places 
of  four,  and  then  not  be  overworked.  I  know  men  who 
should  still  be  using  a  pick  and  shovel  who  are  drawing 
big  salaries,  simply  because  they  can  influence  a  certain 
number  of  votes.  These  men  fill  offices  not  needed  for 
the  better  government  of  the  cities,  and  in  turn  other 
'heelers/  who  have  less  influence,  but  more  brains,  are  ap 
pointed  to  do  the  work  of  the  office ;  and  so  it  runs. 

"Ruben,  did  you  ever  think  that  the  one  important  thing 
of  a  great  government  is  that  its  children  should  have 
every  possible  educational  advantage,  that  its  teachers 
should  be  well  chosen  and  well  paid?" 
"Are  they  not  well  paid  now?''  I  asked. 
"As  compared  with  many  an  illiterate  office-holding 
politician,  no.  Men  ignorant  of  everything  but  how  to 
wheedle  your  people  out  of  their  votes  are  in  many  in 
stances  paid  as  many  thousands  as  your  teachers  are  paid 
hundreds  for  doing  nothing  but  draw  their  salaries  and 
work  for  their  party.  Your  cities  would  be  better  gov 
erned  without  the  political  sinecure,  and  the  wasted  money 
better  expended  on  the  faithful  teachers  who  give  the  best 
years  of  their  life  for  the  teaching  and  upbuilding  of  your 
future  citizens. 

"I  tell  you,  Ruben,  it  is  all  wrong — wrong  now,  and 
growing  worse  as  the  insatiable  desire  for  government  po 
sitions  (city  and  national)  grows  upon  the  people.  Tt 
creates  a  dissatisfaction  with  the  hard  drudgery  that  must 
be  done  to  keep  the  wheels  going.  Men  want  something 
easier,  and,  looking  about,  catch  sight  of  a  'position,'  and 
bend  all  their  efforts  to  reach  some  petty  office,  no  matter 
what  the  office,  so  that  they  may  not  have  to  drudge. 
Many  a  good  artisan  is  turned  into  a  poor  Alderman,  who, 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


291 


in  turn,  helps  make  the  laws  for  your  great  cities.  This 
holds  good  not  alone  in  the  petty  offices  sought  for  the 
pay,  but  often  in  the  highest  positions  in  your  country 
sought  for  the  honor.  Look,  if  you  will,  into  the  'Mil 
lionaires'  Club,'  at  the  seat  of  your  National  Government. 
Who  are  the  men  who  are  filling  the  places  vacated  by  your 
Websters,  Clays,  Calhouns,  Jeff ersons  and  like  statesmen  ? 
True,  it  has  even  yet  many  great  men ;  but  compare  the 
ability  and  simplicity  of  other  days  with  the  luxury-loving 
present.  What  an  example  is  this  great  national  alms- 
house  for  the  millions  who  are  struggling  for  a  meagre 
existence !  I  say  'almshouse,'  for  does  not  your  govern 
ment  dole  out  and  pay  for  the  'cold  tea,'  bromo-seltzers, 
etc.,  as  it  would  dole  out  and  pay  for  your  paupers?" 

"But,  Tom,"  said  I,  "would  you  have  our  great  law 
makers  placed  upon  a  'cheap'  scale?  You  must  remem 
ber  that  times  have  changed  since  the  days  of  'Jeffersoiiian 
simplicity.'  ' 

"Oh,  how  true  that  is !  Times  have  indeed  changed. 
The  man  with  millions  now  fills  the  place  once  held  by  the 
statesman,  but  the  poor  of  your  land  are  worse  off  than 
they  were  in  the  old  days,  and  are  made  to  feel  it  by  seeing 
how  luxurious  your  lawmakers  are  enabled  to  live,  whilst 
they  must  struggle  on  with  little  for  the  present  and  a 
prospect  for  even  less  as  the  times  continue  to  change. 

"Seeing  all  this  luxury,  the  desire  for  office  is  becoming 
so  intense  that  a  man  will  barter  self-respect,  honor,  every 
thing,  to  the  leader  who  may  be  able,  by  means  of  vast,  far- 
reaching  political  machinery,  to  elect  him.  Is  that  man's 
vote  cast  for  the  good  of  the  people  who  sent  him  ?  Does 
his  own  judgment  play  any  part  in  legislation?  In  a 
word,  does  he  or  the  silent  leader  make  your  laws?  The 
lobbyist  will  soon  be  relegated  to  some  political  museum. 
His  calling  is  rapidly  passing.  The  great  corporation  that 


292  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

wishes  a  law  that  will  wring  from  the  burdened  public 
more  money  and  turn  it  into  its  vast  party  treasury  does 
not  go,  as  formerly,  into  your  halls  of  Assembly,  wine, 
dine  and  buy  your  Assemblymen,  but  it  goes  quietly  to 
some  great  leader,  and  there  bargains  for  it  as  for  a  legiti 
mate  commodity." 

"Do  you  mean,  Tom,  that  these  leaders  accept  money, 
as  individuals?'' 

"No,  not  that  exactly.  They  simply  allow  the  corpora 
tion  to  donate  thousands  of  dollars  toward  running  the 
'machine.'  Many  of  them  are  personally  very  honest 
men.  It  is  not  the  money  but  the  power  they  can  wield  by 
being  able  to  raise  the  necessary  funds.  Some  men  care 
far  more  for  power  than  for  gold  or  silver.  To  know  that 
they  can  make  or  ruin  the  prospects  of  a  candidate  ;  to  pass 
or  kill  a  measure  by  a  nod  or  shake  of  the  head ;  to  have 
their  fellow-men  bow  to  their  slightest  wish,  is  far  sweeter 
to  them  than  mines  of  wealth." 

"This  may  be  true,"  said  I,  "of  elective  offices ;  but  does 
not  the  civil  service  protect  the  aspirant  for  an  appointive 
position  ?" 

"Ruben,  the  man  whose  per  cent,  on  real  ability  might 
reach  100  stands  no  chance  with  one  of  50  per  cent,  of 
ability  and  49  per  cent,  of  political  influence." 

"Tom,"  said  I,  "you  are  too  severe  on  our  system  of 
government.  You  can  see  nothing  that  is  right.  Every 
thing  is  wrong,  and  yet  I  had  thought  no  government  in 
the  world  had  so  fine  a  system  as  ours.  You  have  con 
demned  it  in  a  general  way,  which  is  no  proof  of  the 
wrong." 

"Then  let  me  speak  of  the  wrongs  not  in  a  general  way. 
Is  it  a  correct  system  of  government  that  in  any  form  gives 
rights  to  one  that  it  gives  not  to  all  ?  Is  it  a  right  system 
of  government  that  admits  of  a  possibility  of  a  great  mer- 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


293 


chant  who  perchance  has  contributed  a  vast  amount  of 
money  to  elect  his  favorite,  receiving  in  turn  for  that  con 
tribution  contracts  at  his  own  price,  against  all  bids,  no. 
matter  how  low?  Is  it  a  right  system  of  government 
where  a  favorite  bank,  which,  like  the  merchant,  had  re 
sponded  when  called  upon  for  campaign  funds,  is  given 
preference  over  all  others  as  a  depository?  Or,  coming 
down  to  the  individual,  is  it  a  right  system  of  government 
where  laws  oppress  one  that  another  may  be  benefited  ?  Is 
that  law  a  just  one  that  says  one  man  shall  work  a  full 
day  at  hard  labor,  putting  in  every  minute  of  the  time,  at 
a  low  wage,  while  it  gives  to  another  high  pay  for  one  or 
two  hours'  sitting?  And  right  here  I  will  be  specific: 
Property  is  to  be  condemned  for  water  rights  or  a  street 
is  to  be  opened  or  widened,  or  some  other  matter  of  public 
needs  is  to  be  attended  to.  A  commission  is  appointed  on 
which  more  of  your  men  with  influence  are  placed.  An 
hour's  sitting  means  a  clay's  work.  Tens  of  thousands  of 
dollars  of  the  public's  money  are  frittered  away  for  what, 
if  conducted  as  men  of  business  would  conduct  their 
business,  could  be  better  adjusted  in  a  short  time  and  at  a 
nominal  cost.  Begging  your  pardon  for  any  seeming  dis 
respect  to  your  chosen  profession,  I  am  sorry  to  have  to 
say  that  much  of  this  costly  commission  work  must  be 
laid  at  your  doors.  Yon  never  rush  commission  work. 
You  extend  a  case  with  even  more  tact  than  a  poor  doctor 
with  a  rich  patient.  Why,  some  of  these  commissions 
cost  in  fees  almost  as  much  as  the  price  of  the  property 
condemned.  Your  lawyers,  in  their  seeming  effort  to  get 
the  people's  lands  for  less  than  their  value,  make  these 
lands  cost  far  above  their  value.  The  day  will  come  when 
the  people  will  find  a  far  less  expensive  way  of  determin 
ing  real  values  than  by  an  expensive  commission. 

"Wipe  out  those  laws  from  the  statute  which  oppress 


294  MY    FRIEND    BILL. 

the  poor,  for,  Ruben,  the  Lord  knows  theii  lives  are  hard 
enough  at  best.  The  impression  among  those  who  know 
nothing  about  the  poor,  save  as  inferior  beings  to  be 
looked  down  upon,  is  that  they  have  no  aspirations  above 
the  life  they  lead.  Ruben,  I  have  seen  men  among  those 
ground  down  by  poverty  who  have  aspirations  that  make 
a  hell  of  their  surroundings.  They  would  rise  above 
them,  but  they  cannot.  The  injustice  of  their  fellow-men 
has  so  interwoven  systems  of  oppression  that  they  cannot 
surmount  the  barriers  that  shut  them  in.  I  do  not  speak 
of  those  who  are  numbed  by  ignorance  and  are  happy  in 
their  condition.  These  are  content,  in  a  great  measure, 
with  their  lot  in  life  and  are  happy  with  little.  I  speak 
of  those  who  would  come  out  of  their  low  condition,  a 
condition  reached  too  often  through  no  fault  of  theirs,  but 
through  wrong  systems. 

"1  once  stood  in  a  great  railway  station  and  watched 
the  people  come  and  go.  Near  me  was  a  young  husband 
and  wife.  From  a  few  sentences  I  gathered  that  the  wife 
was  from  some  inland  town,  and  was  at  the  station  to  take 
a  train  for  her  old  home. 

"  'Jack,'  she  said,  'I  hate  to  go.  Each  time  I  go  back,  I 
look  worse.  Both  my  clothing  and  my  face  show  the 
struggle  we  have  had  against  poverty.  But,  oh !  Jack, 
dear,  I  do  not  blame  you,  for  I  know  you  have  done  the 
best  you  could !'  They  were  silent  as  they  turned  to  wipe 
something  from  their  eyes.  Oh  that  the  rich,  who  know 
not  nor  feel  not  the  struggles  of  the  poor  for  their  exist 
ence,  could  have  seen  that  simple  parting!  Is  the  un- 
needed  surplus  of  their  wealth  worth  those  silent  tears? 
Do  the  wasted  roses  and  rare  flowers  pay  for  the  misery 
their  cost  might  relieve  ? 

"When  the  wife  had  gone  I  made  excuse  to  talk  with 
the  husband.  At  first  he  was  loath  to  speak  other  than 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


295 


in  commonplace,  but  I  finally  drew  from  him  some  of  his 
life's  history,  which  was  that  of  thousands  of  others.  He 
had  once  held  a  lucrative  position  in  a  great  manufactur 
ing  firm  and  was  prosperous.  He  had  been  a  traveling 
salesman,  or  what  you  in  America  call  a  drummer — I.  O. 
O.  G.  F. — a  body  of  men,  by  the  way,  who  might  well  be 
called  the  Sunshine  of  Commercial  Life,  as  they  have  car 
ried  throughout  your  land  more  of  brightness  than  has 
any  other  class.  But  the  sunshine  is  fast  waning  into  twi 
light,  and  the  places  that  have  known  him  will  ere  long 
know  him  no  more.  And  all  because  other  of  your  people, 
less  worthy,  want  that  'fraction  of  a  per  cent.' 

"This  man  was  cultured,  but  his  spirits  were  broken  by 
the  long  fight  for  existence.  His  clothing,  of  rich  material 
when  new,  was  now,  from  long  wear,  much  worn,  and 
showed  the  handiwork  of  a  frugal  wife  in  the  patches  she 
had  tried  so  hard  to  disguise.  Oh,  the  tears  and  heart 
aches  oft  indicated  by  a  patch ! 

"The  firm  for  which  he  had  worked  from  office  boy  up 
ward  went  into  a  trust,  and  he  was  no  longer  needed. 
He  sought  a  position  in  the  only  line  he  knew,  but  was 
everywhere  told  that  there  was  no  place  for  him.  No 
place  for  a  man  to  earn  his  loaf  of  bread  in  this  age,  when 
others  are  piling  up  their  millions  ! 

"He  finally  got  his  name  placed  on  the  waiting  list  in  a 
great  street  railway  corporation,  and  when  I  met  him  he 
was  working  'a  few  days  each  week,'  as  he  said.  He  told 
me  how  that  these  great  corporations  broke  in  unneeded 
numbers  of  men,  so  that  in  case  of  a  strike  the  places  of 
the  strikers  could  always  be  filled  by  others,  who  were 
driven  by  necessity  to  accept  any  terms  offered.  'Jacks' 
are  becoming  very  numerous. 

"T  would  not  have  the  rich  give  their  wealth  in  charity. 
Charity,  so-called,  degrades  the  recipient  and  relieves  but 


296  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

temporary  needs.  Give  'Jack'  a  chance  to  help  himself. 
That  is  true  charity  and  lasting." 

"Yes,  Tom,  but  how?''  I  asked.  "In  this  age  of  close 
competition  the  manufacturers,  the  business  men  in  gen 
eral,  have  to  watch  every  turn  lest  they  themselves  fail.  I 
tell  you  it  is  an  impossibility  to  give  to  the  employee  bet 
ter  than  he  is  now  getting." 

"Ruben,  the  proofs  of  the  possible  are  the  facts  that 
exist.  I  have  in  mind  an  establishment  which  has  grown 
as  though  by  magic.  There  is  in  this  vast  manufactory 
none  of  that  feeling  against  the  firm  which  prevails  too 
often  where  the  employee  is  counted  only  as  a  machine. 
The  head  of  this  great  industry  has  a  heart  through  which 
pulsates  human  feeling.  He  has  erected  a  library  and 
filled  it  with  the  choicest  literature,  making  of  his  em 
ployees  a  reading,  thinking  people.  He  has  surrounded  his 
great  buildings  with  a  labarynth  of  trees  and  flowers.  He 
has  a  hospital  for  those  who  may  become  ill,  and  the  best 
of  physicians  to  minister  to  them.  In  short,  his  people  are 
his  family.  His  rules  are  just  and  bear  lightly.  The 
products  of  his  factory  are  the  perfection  of  mechanism ; 
for  the  workmen  put  into  their  work  a  loving  judgment. 
They  give  in  return  for  fair  treatment  the  best  they  have 
— cultured  skill. 

"Again,  not  far  from  the  city  wherein  is  located  the 
above  works,  in  a  little  town  in  Southern  Ohio,  there  is  a 
great  manufacturing  firm  whose  employees  share  in  its 
profits.  A  strike  is  never  known.  The  workman  feels  that 
the  great  men  in  the  office  are  his  friends ;  he  feels,  too, 
that  they  are  working  for  him,  and  in  his  turn  he  must 
work  to  their  best  interest  who  have  made  his  life  less  of  a 
burden.  He  becomes  a  better  workman  and  a  better  man. 
While  other  firms  in  the  same  line  have  failed,  this  one  has 
gone  steadily  on,  until  it  is  far  in  advance  of  all  its  com- 


MY    FRIEND    BILL. 


297 


petitors,  until  it  has  no  competitors.  What  it  has  done 
others  can  do.  The  millionaire  who  gives  to  charity  his 
thousands  ground  out  of  the  lives  of  his  workmen  will  get 
no  reward  here  nor  hereafter." 

"Tom,  what  you  say  may  be  very  true,  but  do  you  know 
what  the  world  calls  men  who  advocate  such  principles  as 
you  have  been  advocating  to-night?" 

"And,  Ruben,  do  you  know  what  the  men  of  Ephesus 
called  the  Apostles?  I  tell  you  right  is  right,  though  it 
take  a  thousand  years  to  prove  it !  The  world  may  say 
what  it  may,  but  the  world  will  not  be  its  best  until  justice 
and  right  are  equally  meted  out  to  all.  No  wonder  the 
world  is  bad,  when  man  superior  deals  so  ill  with  man  in 
ferior.  If  the  human  instead  of  the  pride  in  mankind  were 
to  predominate,  how  soon  the  world  would  grow  better! 
The  rich  would  be  happier  and  the  poor  more  content. 

"There  will  come  a  time  when  your  people  will  see  and 
fully  realize  their  condition,  and  with  the  coming  of  that 
time  there  will  arise  a  leader  who  will  champion  the  cause 
of  justice  and  lead  them  out  into  the  right.  This  leader 
will  not  come  from  the  conservative  East,  but  from  the 
West,  where  the  human  still  holds  swray  in  the  hearts  of 
the  people.  This  leader  will  be  a  young  man  of  the  pro 
gressive  school.  He  will  come  from  the  masses.  He  will 
be  owned  by  no  man  or  class  of  men.  His  own  sense  of 
justice  will  dictate  his  every  act.  He  will  pay  no  incompe 
tent  man  with  a  great  office  for  political  or  financial  rea 
sons,  but  will  choose  men  whose  statesmanship  is  not 
measured  by  the  dollar  or  the  ability  to  assist  him  in  gain 
ing  the  leadership.  When  such  a  man  shall  arise,  woe  be 
to  the  trusts  that  are  grinding  out  the  lives  of  your  peo 
ple  !  Woe  be  to  the  men  who  would  make  the  lot  of  the 
poor  even  worse  than  it  now  is.  It  has  been  said  by  a 
great  man  that  'trusts  represent  the  distinction  of  oppor- 


298  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

tunity.'  This  young  leader  will  be  a  man  who  cannot  be 
defeated  by  the  millions  of  dollars  poured  out  by  the  rich 
corporations  who  would  destroy  him,  for  your  people  will 
recognize  him  when  he  comes  and  follow  him  on  to 
victory." 

"Tom,  why  do  you  speak  of  the  West  as  better  than  the 
East  in  human  feeling?"  I  could  not  help  asking,  as  he 
was  so  emphatic  in  his  assertion. 

"Ruben,  have  I  ever  found  a  fault  without  giving  a  rea 
son?  Can  you  call  to  mind  where  in  the  West  that  the 
very  heads  of  a  city  government  would  be  so  devoid  of  all 
human  feeling  as  to  be,  for  selfish  gain,  parties  to  forcing 
up  by  a  trust  combination  prices  of  an  absolute  necessity 
to  a  point  almost  beyond  the  reach  of  the  very  poor,  many 
of  whose  votes  had  helped  to  place  in  power  these  same 
heads  ?  No,  Ruben,  it  could  not  be  found  in  the  West,  nor 
would  I  have  believed  it  possible  to  find  it  anywhere  in  the 
world,  not  even  among  the  lowest  order  of  beings,  much 
less  the  highest." 


CHAPTER  LII. 

It  is  not  flic  ii.'ood,  the  brick  and  the  stone  that  makes  the 
home.  It  is  the  place  and  not  the  structure,  the  land 
and  not  the  house. 

While  Tom  was  in  the  midst  of  his  discourse  on  bad 
laws  and  their  makers,  the  Broker  and  the  Preacher  came 
in  and  sat  as  interested  listeners.  Having  a  practical  turn 
of  mind,  the  broker  turned  the  conversation  into  a  channel 
relating  to  his  line  of  business,  the  taxing  of  real  estate, 
the  ownership  of  properties,  etc.  He  was  surprised  to  hear 
Tom's  notions,  as  was  I,  for  we,  knowing  his  Socialistic 
views,  had  thought  he  would  advocate  a  different  line  of 
adjustment. 

"What  is  your  opinion  on  the  question  of  'unearned  in 
crement?'  Would  you  have  only  the  unimproved  property 
pay  the  taxes  and  thus  compel  the  owners  of  such  to  im 
prove  it?  Since  it  is  by  the  buildings  of  your  neighbors 
that  your  vacant  lot  is  made  valuable,  should  you  not  pay 
for  such  enhancement  ?"  asked  the  broker. 

"There  never  was  a  greater  fallacy,"  began  Tom,  who 
always  seemed  ready  with  an  answer.  "A  village,  town 
or  city  needs  only  about  so  many  dwellings  or  business 
houses  to  accommodate  its  people.  Every  structure  be 
yond  its  growing  needs  but  comes  into  competition  with 
those  that  can  be  used,  and  the  further  building  of  useless 
houses  but  depreciates  the  value  of  the  whole.  That  man 
who  will  hold  his  vacant  lot,  pay  taxes  on  this  unearning 


300 


MY    FRIEND    BILL. 


property,  year  after  year,  rather  than  to  build  in  competi 
tion  with  his  neighbor  should  not  be  fined  for  doing  it. 

''Another  very  great  fallacy  is  that  the  state  should  own 
the  land  and  lease  it  to  the  people.  This  would  soon  blot 
out  of  the  language  that  beautiful  word  'Home.'  It  is  not 
the  wood,  the  brick  and  the  stone  that  make  the  home. 
These  may  be  burned,  shaken  down  or  blown  away.  It  is 
the  land  on  which  the  house  is  set  that  appeals  to  the  heart. 
Have  you  not,  when  boys,  fought  the  great  bees  that  build 
their  nests  in  the  fields  ;  fought  and  utterly  destroyed  their 
home?  Have  you  not  watched  those  that  escaped  your 
'bee  paddle ;'  how  they  hover  around  the  place,  and,  if  un 
disturbed,  rebuild  their  nest  in  the  same  excavation  ?  Your 
country  would  soon  be  a  place  of  houses  with  'home' 
eliminated  did  the  state  own  the  land.  It  is  the  place,  and 
not  the  structure ;  the  land,  and  not  the  house." 

"Would  you  have  the  government  own  and  manage  the 
railroads,  telegraph  lines  and  such  like  interests  as  they 
are  managed  in  some  of  the  European  countries  ?''  asked 
the  broker. 

"By  no  means,"  Tom  replied.  "That  would  kill  the  in 
dependence  of  the  individual.  As  well  have  all  the  various 
lines  of  trade  run  by  the  government.  You  would  ere  long 
become  a  land  of  clerks  and  operators — mere  machines, 
to  swing  to  and  fro  as  the  pendulum  of  a  clock,  to  go  ex 
actly  so  far  and  back  again ;  automatons,  wound  up  and 
run  by  a  spring,  instead  of  a  mind.  There  must  always  be 
an  incentive  to  bring  out  the  best  in  man.  The  right  to 
patent  invention  has  wrought  wonders  in  all  the  lines  of 
progress.  The  man  who  has  a  vested  interest  will  always 
protect  that  interest  far  more  than  the  mere  employee. 
With  no  vested  right  of  the  individual  the  world  would 
soon  go  backward. 

"That  to  which  the  Socialist  objects  is  the  wrong  use  to 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


301 


which  vested  rights  arc  put.  The  great  struggle  of  the 
rich  to  gain  what  they  do  not  need  deprives  the  poor  of 
what  they  must  have  to  exist.  When  the  poor  demand 
their  share,  they  are  called  Socialists ;  when  they  insist, 
they  are  called  Anarchists.  The  very  poor  are  degraded. 
Continued  pinching  poverty  would  turn  a  king  into  a  vag 
abond.  Poverty  destroys  honor  and  virtues,  and  yet  we 
who  would  protect  both  are  called  approbious  names  if  wye 
raise  our  voice  in  protest  and  sent  to  prison  if  we  but  raise 
our  hand." 

The  Preacher,  interested  only  in  the  moral  side  of 
matters,  asked  among  many  other  subjects:  "Why  is  it 
that  gambling  cannot  be  stopped  in  our  great  cities  ?" 

"The  reason  is  a  very  short  one,"  replied  Tom  ;  "and 
that  reason  is  that  those  in  power  do  not  wish  it  stopped. 
It  is  a  source  of  too  great  revenue  to  them." 

"Oh.  no,  that  cannot  be  true/'  objected  the  Preacher. 
"See  how  every  year  our  good  men  in  power  try  so  hard 
to  break  up  this  terrible  evil,  even  going  so  far  as  to  de 
stroy  the  gambling  devices  of  those  wicked  men.  No,  you 
do  them  an  injustice.  They,  I  think,  want  to  do  their  duty 
by  the  people  whom  they  govern." 

"Your  argument  but  proves  one  of  the  reasons  for  this 
annual  crusade  against  the  evil.  They  have  two  purposes, 
these  good  men  in  power — one  is  to  fool  the  innocent  pub 
lic,  of  which  you  seem  to  be  a  member;  but  the  real  rea 
son,  or  purpose,  is  far  deeper.  Human  nature  is  confined 
to  no  class,  and  the  gambler  has  his  portion.  One  of  the 
first  principles,  deep  rooted,  is  to  never  pay  more  for  any 
thing  than  it  is  worth ;  and  it  takes  at  least  one  good  stir 
ring  up  each  year  to  make  the  gambling  fraternity  feel 
that  they  are  not  paying  too  high  for  protection  for  the 
rest  of  the  year. 

"Among  the  'good'  men  in  power  this  crusade  is  but  a 


3°2 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


jest,  as  the  following  will  illustrate :  I  was  in  one  of  your 
cities  during  the  'annual  crusade,'  and  was  invited  by  a 
friend  to  go  with  him  to  a  great  political  club  room. 
Games  of  various  kinds  were  in  progress — not  games  for 
mere  amusement,  but  for  money.  I  was  attracted  by  the 
dignified  appearance  of  a  party  of  men  seated  around  one 
of  the  tables.  They  were  not  so  deeply  interested  in  the 
game  as  not  to  take  up  the  subject  that  just  then  was  at 
tracting  some  attention  in  the  city.  'Yes,'  said  one,  'this 
gambling  is  a  terrible  evil,  and  must  be  stopped.  (Give 
me  two  cards).  It  is  ruining  our  young  men  (I  raise  you 
five),  and  filling  our  poorhouses  with  (two  of  a  kind  ;  can 
you  beat  it?)  widows  and  orphans.'  'Why  not  say  we  all,' 
said  another.  'Now,  we  can  do  it.  You  represent  one  of 
the  municipal  courts ;  I  the  Prosecuting  Attorney's  office, 
and  you  of  the  police.  Yes,  let's  reform  the  city.  (Here, 
you,  play  up!)  That's  what  we're  all  in  for !'  And  these 
men  really  represented  the  offices  mentioned.  Xow,  my 
dear  man,  what  sort  of  a  hope  have  you  of  doing  anything 
with  vice  when  you  ministers  preach  one  day  of  the  seven 
while  vice  is  protected  the  whole  of  the  seven  by  men  who 
draw  double  pay — one  for  putting  down  (?)  evil,  and  the 
other  for  protecting  evil,  especially  when  the  last  pay  is 
the  higher?  I  have  long  ceased  to  worry  over  this  sub 
ject  of  'chance.'  I  find  too  much  else  to  occupy  my  time." 
I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  Tom's  enthusiasm  or  my 
own  innate  desire  to  help  the  deserving  poor  that  caused 
me  to  make  many  excursions  with  him  among  the  low 
dens  of  poverty ;  but  this  I  know :  that  could  those  men 
whose  wealth  is  yearly  piled  higher  by  the  toil  of  the  be 
ings  I  saw,  see  and  know  the  true  condition  of  these  peo 
ple,  they  would  surely  be  content  with  less  and  gladly  give 
to  them,  not  charity,  but  just  compensation.  I  take  no 
credit  when  I  speak  of  the  many  dollars  of  Aunt  Radical's 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


303 


legacy  that  went  to  brighten  the  homes  of  Tom's  poor,  for 
I  received  my  reward  as  I  went.  I  know,  could  the  dear 
old  aunt  look  down  and  see  the  joy  these  dollars  brought ; 
the  homes  they  brightened,  the  hunger  they  relieved,  the 
cold  they  warmed,  the  lives  of  little  children  they  saved, 
or  the  naked  they  clothed,  that  she  would  not  feel  she  had 
erred  in  willing  me  a  part  of  her  barren  old  farm. 

Helen  seemed  never  so  happy  as  when  I  would  tell  her 
of  the  poor  little  children  I  had  seen.  I  always  knew  what 
she  meant  when  she  would  begin,  "Mister  Ruben,  tell  me 
about  them!"  "Them"  had  only  one  meaning  to  her. 
Once  she  begged  her  mother  so  pleadingly  to  be  allowed 
to  go  with  me  that  her  wish  was  granted.  That  visit 
among  the  homes  of  the  very  poor  was  as  though  to  a  new 
world  to  her.  One  sentence  of  her  recital  of  that  visit 
told  the  whole  story.  She  had  seen  in  a  tenement  a  very 
much  starved  cat  that  went  about  coughing  and  sneezing : 
"Oh,  mamma,  you  should  see  how  those  people  live.  They 
look  so  tired  and  sick.  Why,  mamma,  at  one  place  even 
the  cat  had  consumption." 

After  that  visit  she  would  have  her  special  cases  to  look 
after,  through  Tom,  who  I  never  knew  to  fail  in  selecting 
the  deserving.  He  knew  the  impostors  by  intuition,  and 
they,  too,  soon  learned  to  know  and  shun  him. 


CHAPTER   LIII. 
MAGGIE'S    STORY. 

"My  early  life  ran  clear  as  the  mountain  stream  nearby 
our  cottage  home." 

One  evening,  on  my  return  from  law  school,  Tom  met 
me  with  a  more  than  usual  serious  face.  He  was  always 
serious.  I  had  scarce  known  him  to  smile  and  never  once 
to  laugh.  He  seemed  ever  to  be  bearing  the  burdens  of 
those  who  know  no  joy.  Life  to  him  was  always  real. 
There  were  no  flowers  along  the  wayside  for  him — naught 
but  weeds  and  tangled  vines,  and  little  graves  in  the  Pot 
ter's  Field. 

"Ruben"  said  he,  "I  want  you  to  go  with  me  to-night. 
One  of  the  saddest  deaths  occurred  today  that  I  have  ever 
witnessed.  It  was  that  of  a  woman  whose  illness  I  had 
but  heard  of  it  this  morning.  She  was  dying  when  I 
reached  the  garret  in  which  she  lay.  A  little  nest  of  straw 
and  one  thin,  raged  coverlet  was  her  bed.  A  little  girl  of 
three  years  played  about  the  room,  all  unconscious  of  her 
mother's  conditin.  She  would  now  and  then  go  to  the 
bed  and  say :  'Mamma,  I  is  so  hungry.  Dit  up  and  do  out 
an'  clit  me  a  tust.' 

1  'Yes,  darling,  mamma  will  go  soon,'  and  turned  her 
head  and  sighed,  'Poor  dear !  I  will  go  soon !' 

"The  first  thing  I  did  was  to  send  for  a  physician  and 
some  nourishing  food  for  mother  and  child ;  but  I  could 

304 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


305 


see  that  neither  would  be  of  any  use  to  the  mother.  Al 
most  before  the  doctor  came  she  was  gone,  but  before  she 
died  she  took  from  her  bosom  an  envelope  and  feebly 
gave  it  to  me. 

'  'My  life's  story.  Please,  kind  sir,  find  a  home  for  my 
darling — my  poor  little  Maggie.' 

"That  was  all.  I  called  in  some  of  the  women  of  the 
tenement  to  look  after  the  unfortunate,  and  left  the  child 
with  a  good  woman  I  knew. 

"Here  is  the  envelope.  I  did  not  have  the  heart  to 
open  it." 

I  took  it  from  him,  tore  it  open,  and  began  to  read.  I 
looked  for  the  name,  when,  lo  ! — I  exclaimed :  "Tom,  what 
strange  fate  led  you  to  that  garret?  This  woman  is  the 
long  lost  Maggie — the  widow's  daughter  of  whom  I  have 
told  you.  Go  quickly,  and  at  once.  See  that  no  lady  could 
be  looked  after  more  gently.  Get  for  her  the  best.  Give 
me  the  address,  and  I  will  follow  when  I  have  read  the 
story.  It  may  contain  that  which  I  should  know  at  once." 
I  read  it  through.  It  was  short,  but  contained  a  great 
volume. 

MAGGIE'S  STORY. 

"My  story,  like  my  life,  is  very  short.  When  all  is  over, 
when  I  can  no  longer  see  that  mother  whose  life  I  have 
saddened,  send  me  back  to  her.  She  may  remember  the 
good  and  forgive  the  bad  she  thinks  of  me. 

"I  once  was  pure  and  good  and  knew  no  wrong. 

"I  was  born  and  reared  in  Highmont,  Penn.  My  early 
life  ran  clear  as  the  mountain  stream  nearby  our  cottage 
home,  where  my  mother  and  I  dwelt  alone  in  content. 

"When  a  child  of  seventeen,  when  I  knew  nothing  of 
the  wrongs  of  the  world,  there  came  into  my  life  a 
tempter,  who  told  me  of  the  beauties  to  be  seen  in  other 


306  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

lands.  Oh,  the  pictures  he  drew  of  that  world  about 
which  I  knew  nothing !  To  me  he  proposed  marriage,  and 
though  I  knew  naught  of  him,  I  loved,  aye,  worshiped 
him,  and  accepted  his  offer.  I  would  have  told  my  mother 
at  once,  but  he  forbade  it.  'No,'  said  he,  'we  will  go  away 
and  be  married.  She  might  object,  and,  my  darling,  I 
dare  not  risk  losing  you.'  I  believed  him,  and  late  in  the 
night  we  came  away,  walking  a  long  distance.  For  him  I 
could  have  walked  to  the  end  of  the  world.  We  reached 
at  last  a  railway  station,  and  came  to  a  city — where  I  do 
not  know.  There  we  were  driven  a  long  distance  to  a 
house,  where  we  were  married,  as  I  then  thought.  The 
man  gave  us  a  paper,  which  my  husband  kept.  From  this 
city  we  came  to  New  York.  The  first  thing  I  did  was  to 
write  a  long  letter  to  my  mother,  asking  her  to  forgive  me 
and  telling  her  how  happy  I  was. 

"I  soon  learned  that  my  husband  was  very  wealthy.  He 
bought  for  me  the  finest  of  gowns  and  jewels.  He  said  I 
was  very  beautiful,  and  that  he  was  proud  of  me.  All 
these  things  were  as  nothing  to  his  love  of  me. 

"We  traveled  in  Europe,  visiting  all  the  great  cities, 
seeing  the  things  of  which  he  had  told  me.  The  sights 
we  saw  soon  began  to  lose  their  charm,  for  I  could  see 
that  my  husband's  love  was  growing  cold.  We  returned 
to  New  York,  which  we  had  scarcely  reached  when  my 
husband  said :  'Maggie,  I  think  we  have  kept  up  this  farce 
long  enough !' 

"  'What  do  you  mean  by  farce  ?' 

'  'Why,'  said  he,  with  a  sneer  that  cut  like  a  knife  into 
my  heart,  'the  farce  of  being  married.  We  are  not 
married !' 

"'Not  married?  That  cannot  be  true — we  were,  and 
you  have  the  paper.' 

"  'Come,  come,  little  one,  don't  grow  hysterical.    Even 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


307 


if  we  were  married,  you  have  no  proof  of  it.  Why,  you 
don't  even  know  the  city  where  that  sham  ceremony  was 
pronounced.' 

"  'Oh,  what  will  my  mother  say,  after  all  my  letters  to 
her,  telling  of  our  marriage  and  my  great  happiness !' 

'  'Don't  worry,  little  one.  She  knows  nothing.  Your 
letters  were  never  sent.' 

"This  was  too  great  a  blow.  The  perfidy  of  the  man  I 
had  worshiped  as  a  god !  I  swooned  away,  and  when  my 
senses  returned  I  was  alone. 

"Why  tell  of  my  long  years  of  struggle !  My  life  is  but 
the  counterpart  of  hundreds  of  other  wronged  women 
who  have  had  to  suffer  on  in  silence.  My  little  one  came, 
and,  not  daring  to  use  another's  name,  I  gave  her  my  own. 

"As  long  as  I  could  pledge  my  jewels  and  fine  clothing 
we  lived.  Since  then  we  have  existed. 

"A  woman  with  a  child  has  no  place.  No  doors  were 
open  to  us.  Wre  were  outcasts. 

"From  a  rented  room  to  a  tenement,  and  then  the  end — 
a  garret ! 

"Xot  long  ago,  when  I  was  almost  in  rags,  I  was  stand 
ing  one  evening  watching  the  richly  dressed  people  enter 
ing  one  of  the  great  theatres,  when  a  carriage  drove  up  to 
the  sidewalk.  A  gentleman  and  a  beautiful  young  woman 
alighted  and  were  about  to  enter  the  theatre,  when  I 
recognized  in  the  man  my  husband.  I  started  toward  him, 
pleading  him  to  hear  me.  'Officer !'  said  he  to  a  ready 
policeman,  who  stood  near  the  entrance,  'take  this  woman 
away,'  at  the  same  time  thrusting  money  into  the  officer's 
hand.  I  was  thrown  into  prison,  and  when,  next  morning,. 
I  was  brought  before  the  judge,  the  story  told  by  the 
policeman  outweighed  my  prayers,  and  I  was  sent  away 
to  the  island  for  three  months,  during  which  time  the 
kind  neighbors,  who  are  nearly  as  poor  as  myself,  looked 


308  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

after  my  little  Maggie. 

"The  very  name  my  husband  gave  was  as  false  as  him 
self ;  and  yet  I  would  have  known  and  recognized  the  face 
of  the  'Hunter/  as  he  was  known  at  Highmont,  had  I  seen 
it  in  the  furthest  part  of  the  world. 

"This  is  the  end  of  my  story,  and  soon,  I  feel,  will  come 
the  end  of  my  young  life,  while  he  who  has  caused  all  this 
sorrow  and  pain  will  live  on,  honored  by  the  world — for 
he  has  gold.  I,  too,  might  live  on  were  I  false  to  my 
vows ;  but  I  will  die  here  in  my  garret  alone  with  my 
child  rather  than  be  unfaithful  to  him.  Though  he  be 
false  in  everything,  yet  do  I  love  him. 

"Should  my  dear  old  mother  be  living,  I  pray  she  may 
forgive  her  wronged  MAGGIE." 

Then  followed  a  postscript,  in  which  she  gave  her 
mother's  name ;  also  the  name  by  which  she  had  known 
her  husband. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

"The  people  of  a  small  village  arc  quick  to  blame  and 
quite  as  ready  to  condone  a  wrong  step." 

"I  is  so  happy.  My  dood  drain  ma  says  I  won't  never 
have  to  eat  tusts  no  more." 

As  the  reader  knows,  the  mother  was  well  known  to 
me,  and  by  another  strange  fate  I  had  recently  seen  the 
"Hunter"  a  number  of  times  enter  a  most  palatial  resi 
dence  not  far  from  my  boarding  place. 

I  am  quick  to  act.  So,  hailing  a  passing  cab,  I  was  soon 
being  driven  toward  the  "Hunter's"  home. 

My  mind  was  a  chaos  of  thought.  What  could  I  do? 
I  had  no  proof,  although  certain  that  he  was  the  man.  He 
could  deny  all  knowledge  of  the  dead  woman.  No  one 
had  seen  him  leave  Highmont  with  her,  and  no  one  that  I 
could  have  found  knew  of  the  marriage.  Even  the  city 
where  it  had  been  performed  was  unknown.  I  had  abso 
lutely  no  witness.  Xo  witness  ?  Yes,  I  had  one — his 
own  heart ;  and  I  would  make  that  one  lone  witness  prove 
his  guilt.  How  could  I  excuse  my  call  on  him? — T,  a 
stranger,  with  no  right  to  enter  his  home  and  brand  him 
as  a  villain !  And  yet  I  would  see  him,  and  at  once ! 

I  was  at  his  door.  I  bid  the  cabman  wait  for  me.  I 
sent  in  my  card,  giving  the  false  name  as  the  one  I  wished 
to  see.  The  negro  grinned  out:  "1  guess,  mistah,  you 
dun  made  a  mistake.  De  man  yah  wants  doan  lib  heah." 

309 


3io 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


"Give  the  card  to  the  young  gentleman  who  does,  and 
say  I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Charles  Coulders." 

This  was  a  bold  stroke  on  my  part,  but  nothing  less 
seemed  to  me  at  the  time  a  better  way  of  placing  my  one 
lone  witness  in  the  chair.  I  knew  that  the  "Hunter"  would 
not  send  word  that  a  mistake  had  been  made.  The  wit 
ness  would  not  allow  such  word  to  be  sent. 

Ah,  he  quickly  responds ;  almost  before  I  had  taken  a 
seat  he  was  in  the  reception  room,  to  which  I  had  been 
shown. 

He  faltered  as  he  spoke.  "I  fear  you  have  made  a  mis 
take,  Mr.  Hick — Mr.—  -  (looks  at  the  card)  Hicken- 
looper." 

"Then  why,"  said  I,  "did  you  not  send  word  by  your 
servant  if  I  have  made  a  mistake?"  He  saw  the  point  / 
raised  and  colored  deeply. 

"Weil,  Mr.  Coulders  does  not  live  here,"  said  he. 

"How  long  since  he  did  ?"  I  asked. 

"He  never  lived  here !"  with  rising  emphasis. 

"Possibly  not  as  'Mr.  Coulders.' ''  said  I  searchingly. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  coming  toward  me. 

"My  words  bear  their  own  meaning,  and  need  no  trans 
lation." 

"Come  to  the  point,  sir,  and  play  not  with  words." 

"Then,  Mr.  Coulders,  your  wife  died  this  afternoon  in 
sitter  poverty,  whilst  you  are  living  in  all  this  luxury. 
That  is  what  I  mean !" 

Ah,  that  was  the  dart  that  pierced  my  one  witness.  It 
made  the  "Hunter"  tremble  and  grasp  at  a  chair  for  sup 
port.  I  would  have  followed  it  up,  but  he  asked : 

"Your  proof,  sir!" 

"That  is  the  very  demand  a  guilty  man  would  make. 
Guilty,  you  know,  but  as  a  last  hope  you  ask  the  proof — 
you  know,  but  would  ask  a  proof  of  it.  Mr.  Coulders,  I 


MY   FRIEND   BILL.  311 

come  to  you  direct,  asking  reparation  for  the  awful  wrong 
you  have  done  an  innocent  girl.  Will  you  make  that 
reparation  or  will  you  compel  me  to  take  the  course  that 
will  right  this  great  wrong?" 

"Who  are  you,  sir,  who  thus  enter  my  house  and  make 
such  accusation?" 

"I  am  the  defender  of  the  woman  who  lies  dead  to 
night  in  a  lonely  garret,  whilst  her  husband,  who  should 
have  protected  her,  denies  that  he  knew  her." 

"Again  I  ask  :  Where's  your  proof?  Suppose  that  what 
you  say  be  true,  you  cannot  prove  it.  You  have  no  record. 
You  cannot  even  name  the  city  where  the  ceremony  was 
pronounced." 

Ah,  that  was  true.  I  had  no  evidence,  but  I  would  con 
tinue  my  bold  effort,  even  up  to  the  verge  of  what  I  would 
detest,  did  I  not  know  he  was  guilty. 

"Mr.  Coulders,  what  you  say  may  be  true.  I  may  not 
have  the  proof  that  would  convict  you  before  a  jury  of 
twelve,  but  I  have  this,  which,  when  that  far  greater  jury 
— the  world — sees,  you  will  tremble  at  its  verdict.  I  have, 
sir,  your  wife's  dying  statement,  and  she  names  you  as  her 
husband,  with  evidence,  strong  enough,  in  my  mind,  to 
warrant  this  bold  accusation  on  my  part.  You  refuse  to 
right  the  wrong?  I  will  not  produce  the  proof.  I  will  let 
the  last  words  of  your  wronged  wife  do  that.  Then  you 
will  be  asked  by  an  exacting  jury  to  refute  her  words. 
Mr.  Coulders,  I  will  bid  you  good  evening." 

"Stay  !  Do  not  go  away  with  that  threat.  I  am  innocent 
in  the  law,  and  you  cannot  prove  me  other  than  innocent ; 
but  I  do  not  wish  my  name  to  be  kicked  about  by  the  com 
mon  herd !  What  do  you  demand  for  your  great  interest 
in  this  person?" 

"For  myself  I  demand  nothing,  but  for  your 
child "  ' 


312 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


"What!"  he  exclaimed;  "a  child — my  child?" 

"Yes ;  a  pretty  little  girl  of  three  years.  For  her  I  de 
mand  that  you  shall  place  in  trust  a  sum  that  will  in  a 
measure  make  up  for  the  wrongs  you  have  done  her  dead 
mother — your  wife  !" 

"Call  upon  me  at  10  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  you 
shall  have  my  answer.  One  more  question,  sir :  Who  are 
you,  and  who  is  your  reference  that  I  may  know  with 
whom  I  am  dealing?" 

"You  have  my  card,  and  my  reference  is  Mr.  Edward 
S.  DeHertbern. 

''\Vhat!  the  firm  of  DeHertbern  &  Son?"  he  asked,  in 
great  surprise. 

"The  same,"  said  I. 

"Well,  I  trust  our  conversation  to-night  will  not  be  re 
peated  to  them." 

"I  do  not  repeat  conversations,"  said  I  quietly. 

"Good-night,  Air.  (another  glance  at  the  card)  Hick- 
enlooper.  I  will  expect  you  at  10  to-morrow,"  and  he 
extended  his  hand,  but  I  did  not  see  it — at  least  did  not 
take  it — as  I  left  the  house. 

I  \vas  driven  to  the  address  Tom  gave  me.  The  con 
trast  was  well  expressed  by  the  cabman  when  he  said,  as 
I  got  out  of  the  cab,  "From  pallis  to  the  huvel !" 

That  voice !    Where  had  I  heard  it  before  ? 

"Is  this  Pat,  who  once  drove  a  young  country  boy  from 
the  ferry  up  to  and  then  the  whole  length  of  Fifth  avenue, 
looking  for  Fifth  avenue  ?" 

"I'm  wan  ov  thim  !" 

Just  then  it  dawned  upon  him  who  I  was.  "Oh,  is  this 
the  buy  with  the  bag  ov  ginger  bread  and  the  quare  shuit 
ov  close,  an'  the  big  hat,  an'  the  long  hair?  Is  it  you! 
Wull,  wull,  wull !  It  is  frum  huvel  to  pallis  dhis  toime! 
Me  conshunse  has  often  choided  me  fur  dhat  thrick " 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


313 


"Well,"  said  I,  reassuringly,  "I  am  sorry  your  con 
science  has  served  you  so  badly ;  but  the  memory  of  that 
drive  well  repays  the  cost,  and  I  forgive  you." 

I  found  that  Tom  had  already  carried  out  my  instruc 
tions.  I  saw  the  mother  and  her  little  Maggie.  There 
was  scarce  a  feature  in  that  poor,  dead  face  that  called  to 
my  mind  the  beautiful  girl  I  had  known  in  the  little  vil 
lage  ;  but  in  the  child  I  could  see  the  promise  of  even 
greater  beauty. 

I  remained  until  everything  was  arranged  for  the 
morrow. 

Promptly  at  10  o'clock  I  was  in  Mr.  "Coukler's"  office. 
He  was  waiting  for  me,  and  would  have  greeted  me  even 
cordially  had  I  shown  any  response. 

"I  have,"  he  began,  "thought  the  matter  over,  and  have 
made  out  this  check  for  you,  which  I  will  give  only  on 
condition  that  my  name  shall  never  appear  in  this  un 
pleasant  affair."  I  took  it,  and,  though  I  knew  him  to  be 
well  to  do,  I  was  greatly  surprised  to  see  the  large  amount 
for  which  it  was  made  out. 

"I  grant  the  condition,"  said  I,  "not  for  the  money,  but 
because  I  have  not  the  proof  of  your  villainy."  He 
winced  as  I  continued :  "Could  I  prove  that,  I  should 
gladly  pay  this  amount  myself  for  your  child.  This  money 
shall  be  placed  at  interest  and  used  most  conscientiously 
for  her.  You  will  one  day  be  proud  to  own  her  as  a 
daughter." 

I  have  seen  my  prophesy  verified  after  many  years. 

That  afternoon  I  went  back  to  Highmont  with  the  dead 
and  the  living,  having  sent  a  message  to  Sister  Anna  to 
prepare  the  poor  widow  for  my  coming. 

The  people  of  a  small  village  are  quick  to  blame  and 
quite  as  ready  to  condone  a  wrong  step.  The  widow  had 
the  deep  sympathy  of  all  when  they  had  heard  the  story, 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

and  little  Maggie  was  soon  the  pet  of  Highmont. 

The  day  I  left,  the  child,  too  young  to  feel  her  loss,  said 
to  me :  "I  is  so  happy ;  my  dood  dramma  says  I  won't 
never,  never  have  to  eat  tusts  no  more." 


CHAPTER  LV. 

THE  CELEBRATION  MAN. 

"That  man  would  defraud  an  employee  on  a  technicality." 

He  dressed  well  and  lived  well ;  yet  no  one  at  the  board 
ing-house  knew  his  occupation.  In  fact,  he  seemed  to 
have  no  occupation. 

A  man  in  Xew  York  with  nothing  to  do  is  always  a 
mystery  to  those  around  him.  This  man  to  us  was  a 
mystery.  He  came  and  went  as  regular  as  a  clock.  He 
was  genial,  and  appeared  well  informed  on  all  the  topics 
of  the  day. 

The  city  was  ahout  to  celehrate  a  great  event  in  its  his- 
toiy.  He  was  particularly  well  informed  on  the  subject 
ar»d  manifested  great  interest  in  it. 

When  we  saw  one  morning  in  the  newspapers  that  he 
had  been  "entrusted  with  the  full  management  of  the  cele- 
biation"  we  were  surprised.  \Ye  felt  honored,  in  that  one 
of  our  people  had  been  chosen  to  fill  a  position  so 
prominent. 

"Why  should  he  have  been  the  choice  of  the  city,  when 
there  were  so  many  who  were  better  known  to  select 
from?"  we  asked. 

Was  he  the  choice?  Events  proved  that  he,  and  he 
alone,  had  guided  the  choosing.  He  was  a  professional 
"celebrator,"  a  calling  so  entirely  new  to  me  that  I  fol 
lowed  with  such  interest  its  inside  workings  that  I  feel 

315 


316  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

quite  competent  to  devote  this  chapter  on  "How  TO  MAKE 
CELEBRATING  PAY." 

As  a  prerequisite  you  must  have  a  military  title,  even 
though  you  may  have  to  sojourn  a  month  in  that  State  re 
nowned  for  its  colonels  and  "Majahs."  Having  acquired 
this  title,  see  that  you  are  never  addressed  without  it.  If 
a  man  addresses  you  as  ''mister,"  tell  him  plainly  to 
"never  let  it  occur  again." 

To  the  watchful  professional,  something  to  celebrate 
will  soon  present  itself.  If  not,  make  something.  This 
is  your  opportunity.  Embrace  it.  You  may  wish  to  take 
the  credit  of  first  thinking  of  it,  but  don't  do  it.  You'll 
have  time  enough  to  boast  of  that  when  you  should  be 
doing  something  else.  Given  the  opportunity,  bestir  your 
self  to  find  the  most  prominent  man  in  the  city  to  act  as 
chairman.  This  will  give  it  respectability.  Whatever 
you  do,  however,  avoid  the  selection  of  a  man  who  shows 
any  inclination  to  "run  things."  Get  yourself  appointed 
as  manager  at  an  exorbitant  salary,  and  your  success  is 
assured.  Waste  no  time  in  putting  upon  the  general  com 
mittee  every  rich  or  prominent  man  in  the  city,  but  choose 
no  one  for  your  sub-committees  whom  you  cannot  fully 
control,  for  there  \vill  be  contracts  to  be  given  out,  and 
therein  lies  your  real  opportunity.  Bids  will  come  in  for 
all  sorts  of  things — from  barrels  of  "buttons"  to  the 
stands  upon  which  the  public  will  see  the  parades.  Pro 
grammes  and  tons  of  other  printing  will  be  required,  and 
more  tons  of  fireworks  to  illuminate  the  city  and  harbor 
must  be  purchased.  Never  take  the  lowest  bid.  Choose, 
rather,  the  highest,  as  this  tends  to  put  the  bidder  making 
it  into  a  very  generous  state  of  mind.  But  do  not  trust 
this  state  of  mind ;  it  may  change  when  once  the  contract 
is  signed.  Trust  to  nothing  but  a  definite  agreement  as 
to  your  part,  of  the  profit  for  the  guidance  of  the  contract. 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


317 


You  will  soon  find  yourself  so  occupied  in  looking  after 
these  contracts  that  assistants  must  be  appointed  to  run 
the  real  business  of  the  celebration.  Never  choose  these 
assistants  from  any  of  the  committees.  Choose  them 
from  among  your  own  men  (a  professional  celebrator 
always  has  a  goodly  following),  and  see.  that  they  are  paid 
far  beyond  their  value.  They  will  appreciate  this  and 
use  their  best  efforts  to  make  the  innocent  public  believe 
you  are  It. 

You  must,  to  be  sure,  have  headquarters.  Men  of  pub 
lic  spirit  will  come  forward  with  offers  of  their  hotels ; 
exchanges  may  throw  open  their  committee-rooms  to  you 
with  freedom  and  a  welcome,  but  be  firm  and  say  "no" 
to  all  such  offers.  Select  rather  some  expensive  hotel 
whose  management  will  pay  you  well  for  such  selection. 
Use  as  many  rooms  as  possible,  especially  if  the  rental  be 
extravagant.  This  is  conducive  to  liberality  on  the  part 
of  the  aforesaid  management. 

A  most  indispensable  adjunct  to  a  Celebration  is  the 
press  department,  and  one  of  the  first  men  to  appoint  is 
a  livre  press  agent,  who  will  work  up  public  interest  to 
the  subscribing  point  against  the  day  for  paying  the  bills. 

The  success  or  failure  of  the  Celebration,  from  a  public 
standpoint,  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  case.  Your  sole 
object  will  have  been  accomplished  when  the  contract  bills 
have  been  paid,  and  you  will  never  after  be  looked  upon 
by  your  fellow  boarders  as  a  mystery. 

There  will  be  no  dearth  of  amusing  incidents  in  the 
organizing  of  a  Celebration,  especially  in  the  selecting  of 
the  committees,  in  watching  the  various  means  men  of 
small  calibre  will  use  to  get  this  cheap  honor.  I  have  in 
mind  a  rich  man  from  some  small  town  up  in  the  State 
whose  parents,  to  make  sure  to  him  a  title,  had  given  him 
at  birth  a  high-sounding  naval  one.  He  spent  his  win- 


318  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

ters  in  the  city,  and  when  the  committees  were  being 
chosen  he  claimed  New  York  as  his  residence,  and  was 
most  anxious  for  the  honor  of  being  a  committeeman, 
but  later  on  when  asked  to  help  defray  the  expenses  of 
the  Celebration  he  would  not  give  a  dollar  toward  it,  and 
thought  it  "very  strange  that  the  city  could  not  run  its 
own  affairs  without  begging  help  from  up-State  citizens/' 

When  Tom  heard  of  this  up-State  committeeman  he 
said :  "That  man  would  defraud  an  employee  on  a  tech 
nicality." 

The  Celebration  man  is  but  one  of  the  many  in  a  great 
city  who  play  upon  the  enthusiasm  of  the  public  for  their 
livelihood. 

The  public  is  very  old,  and  yet  in  many  ways  it  is 
quite  new.  Like  the  individual,  it  must  first  lose  that  it 
may  learn  that  it  is  being  played  upon. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

Did  the  public  know  the  vast  amounts  of  money  paid  to 
their  servants  (?)  to  influence  legislation,  they  would 
not  have  so  great  a  feeling  of  patriotism  on  election, 
day. 

So  much  of  self  has  been  interwoven  into  my  story,  or 
series  of  stories,  that  I  will  not  ask  of  you  to  follow  me 
through  my  years  of  school  life,  and  into  my  well- 
appointed  offices.  Thanks  to  Aunt  Racheal,  I  did  not 
have  to  begin  "practice"  with  a  small  office,  a  scanty  purse 
and  a  large  appetite,  as  do  most  of  the  young  professional 
men  we  read  about.  Neither  did  I  have  to  wait  the  regu 
lation  months  for  my  "first  client."  This  client  was 
kindly  waiting  for  me,  in  the  person  of  Mr.  DeHertbern, 
much  of  whose  legal  business,  not  requiring  years  of  wis 
dom,  I  could  do  for  him. 

It  is  said  that  all  young  men  have  a  longing  desire  for 
public  office,  and  given  the  opportunity,  they  will  not 
refuse  the  honor.  Be  that  as  it  may,  when  Tom  came 
to  me  one  day  and  told  me  that  there  was  a  determined 
movement  started  to  send  me  to  the  Assembly,  and  that 
my  many  friends  on  the  East  Side  were  most  anxious  to 
give  me  their  votes,  I  did  not  hesitate  long  in  telling  him 
that  I  was  "in  the  hands  of  my  friends."  Election  day 
proved  that  these  friends  were  many,  as  my  majority  was 
most  gratifying. 

One  term  was  quite  enough  to  cure  me  of  the  afore- 

319 


320  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

said  "longing  desire.''  It  will  ever  be  a  pleasure  to  say 
no  to  all  future  honors  of  like  character. 

That  one  term  was  an  experience  I  shall  never  forget. 
The  influences  and  temptations  thrown  about  a  young 
Assemblyman  no  one  knows.  The  staid  Deacon  who 
"passes  the  plate"  in  his  village  church  at  home  may  be 
found  at  midnight  in  the  saloon,  or  places  even  lower. 
"One  of  the  boys"  fits  him  well. 

I  used  often  to  wonder  why  bribery  could  not  be 
proven.  I  do  not  wonder  any  more.  I  have  known  men 
who,  when  they  entered  public  office,  were  almost  miser 
ably  poor,  but  in  a  few  years  were  not  only  well  to  do, 
but  rich.  The  innocent  public  wonder  at  the  change,  but 
continue  to  send  back  year  after  year  these  men  whose 
wealth  is  a  mystery  to  them. 

I  spoke  of  bribery  being  almost  impossible  to  prove. 
There  is  no  bribery,  or  at  least  there  need  be  none. 
Why?  The  reason  is  plain.  A  vote  is  needed  on  a  bill ; 
the  lobbyist  (Tom  was  wrong — the  lobbyist  is  still  an 
"institution"  much  in  evidence)  gets  up  "a  quiet  little 
game"  and  kindly  loses  enough  money  to  pay  for  the 
vote.  No,  there  is  no  bribery !  The  lobbyist  paid  out  no 
money  for  a  single  vote.  He  was  simply  a  poor  card- 
player,  that  was  all — but  his  bill  went  through  and  the 
voter  went  home  at  the  end  of  the  term  and  "fixed  up 
the  old  house,"  or,  if  he  had  played  enough  games,  built 
a  new  one  and  bought  a  team. 

Did  the  public  know  the  vast  amounts  of  money  paid 
to  their  servants  (?)  to  influence  legislation,  they  would 
not  have  so  great  a  feeling  of  patriotism  on  election  day. 
The  year  I  served  there  were  many  important  questions 
brought  forward.  I  shall  never  forget  the  interest  a  cer 
tain  "servant"  had  in  the  passage  of  a  bill  that  would 
affect  the  men  who  live  by  "chance."  By  chance  I 


MY   FRIEND    BILL. 


321 


learned  that  for  his  "interest"  he  was  well  remunerated. 
He  was  paid  one  hundred  and  si.vty-fi-rc  thousand  dollars 
for  his  influence.  After  the  money  had  passed  into  his 
hands  he  lost  all  interest  in  the  bill,  which,  like  his  in 
terest,  was  also  lost.  "His  name?"  Oh,  no ;  I  will  reserve 
that  for  a  later  edition.  This  being  no  fiction,  he  has  a 
name. 

Every  session  has  its  "strikers.''  The  "striker"  is  a 
unique  character.  A  man  with  no  moral  sense  of  right 
or  wrong,  whose  thought  begins  and  ends  with  self.  He 
seeks  the  office  for  a  purpose ;  that  purpose  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  public  good.  He  is  a  man  of  no  ability, 
save  that  for  advancing  himself.  Before  election  he  talks 
loudly  of  the  wrongs  done  to  the  people  by  the  "giant 
corporations,''  and  when  elected,  having  little  or  no  abil 
ity,  he  gets  some  one  to  draft  him  a  bill  antagonistic  to 
one  of  the  aforesaid  "giants,"  and  makes  great  pretence 
of  having  his  bill  passed,  knowing  full  well  that  he  will 
soon  have  an  invitation  to  one  of  those  "quiet  little 
games,"  when  he  subsides  and  drops  back  into  his  natural 
mediocrity  and  is  heard  of  no  more  that  term.  The 
"striker"  is  unique.  Nor  is  he  the  only  character  found 
among  our  law-makers  who  looks  alone  at  self  gain.  The 
statesman  is  becoming  alarmingly  rare  who  seeks  alone 
the  public  good. 

I  am  now  quite  convinced,  with  Tom,  that  we  have 
too  much  making  of  laws  and  too  little  enforcement  of 
those  we  already  have.  As  Tom  says,  the  man  with 
money  or  influence  need  fear  no  law,  and  since  most  of 
them  are  made  for  his  benefit,  the  poor  alone  are  made 
to  feel  their  oppression. 

While  in  the  Assembly  I  could  note,  as  never  before, 
'the  power  of  the  press."  The  "home  paper''  is  feared 
far  more  than  are  the  home  people.  "What  the  paper 


322 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


says,"  or  "what  the  editor  thinks"  in  his  private  letters 
to  his  "member,"  carries  far  more  influence  than  if  each 
one  of  his  constituents  should  write  that  member  a  per 
sonal  letter. 

These  "papers"'  are  seldom  entirely  honest  in  their  en 
deavor.  During  my  one  term,  there  was  a  universal  de 
mand  from  all  parts  of  the  State  for  economy.  "The 
people  are  being  taxed  beyond  reason,"  was  the  cry. 
Bald-headed  Broker,  my  real-estate  friend,  had  called  my 
attention  to  the  burdensome  charges  for  legal  printing 
of  delinquent  taxes.  Looking  into  the  matter  carefully, 
and  taking  up  the  general  subject  of  legal  printing,  I 
drew  up  a  bill  cutting  these  charges  down  to  reasonable 
advertising  rates,  and  submitted  it.  Had  I  deliberately 
set  fire  to  the  State  House  I  could  not  have  been  half  so 
roundly  abused  as  I  was  by  these  same  criers  for  econ 
omy.  I  never  would  have  believed  a  man  could  be  so 
many  different  things  all  at. the  same  time  as  they  called 
me.  The  worst  "cuts"  of  all,  however,  were  those  of 
wood,  which  they  used  in  their  cartoons  of  my  innocent 
face. 

Extra  carriers  had  to  be  put  on  to  bring  the  mail  for 
the  members  from  the  editors  of  every  country  "cross 
road  sheet."  It  reminded  me  of  the  time  I  had  adver 
tised  for  "a  quiet  boarding-place."  Members  flocked 
around  me  in  the  corridors,  followed  me  into  the  street, 
called  at  my  hotel  at  all  hours  of  the  night  and  day,  and 
begged  me  not  to  press  my  bill.  "Let  it  die  in  the 
committee-room ;  we'll  pay  all  funeral  expenses,  and  tip 
the  undertaker !"  Men  who  had  entirely  ignored  me 
were  now  most  fawrning  in  their  attentions.  When  flat 
tery,  cajolery  and  such  like  means  failed,  threats  were 
used. 

"Why,"  said  I,  "these  papers  have  been  begging  us 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


323 


for  economy — to  lighten  the  burdens  of  the  people,  and 
all  that !  My  bill  will  certainly  lighten  it  for  some  of 
them.  Do  you  know  that  should  a  man  owning  fifty 
town  lots  in  one  body  fail  to  pay  his  taxes  at  the  right 
time,  and  they  are  advertised  for  sale,  that,  by  law,  some 
insignificant  country  paper  may  charge  for  each  separate 
lot  instead  of  as  a  whole,  and  that  while  the  tax  may  be 
only  a  few  cents  each,  that  the  advertising  as  now  allowed 
will  amount  to  nearly  two  dollars  each?  Do  you  know 
that  the  rate  for  legal  advertising  is  sometimes  seven-fold 
what  these  same  papers  would  gladly  accept  for  ordinary 
advertising?  Do  you  know  these  things,  and  yet  ask  me 
not  to  press  my  bill?  What  have  you  come  here  to  do, 
as  representatives  of  the  people  whose  votes  sent  you,  as 
honest  men,  to  work  in  their  interest?  Is  this  working 
in  their  interest  to  beg  of  me  to  withdraw  my  bill  that 
would  save  them  hard-earned  money?  Is  it  working  in 
their  interest  that  when  they  are  forced  by  law  into  the 
legal  column  of  a  newspaper  that  they  must  needs  pay 
seven  times  as  much  as  they  would  have  to  pay  were  they 
advertising  their  goods  or  produce  for  sale?"  And  many 
more  things  did  I  ask  the  members  who  had  gathered 
round  in  my  hotel  to  beg  of  me  to  allow  my  bill  to  die 
a  natural  death. 

Many  of  them  shamedly  crept  away  until  but  few  of 
tli cm  remained,  and  these  the  more  persistent. 

"Do  you  know,"  asked  one,  who  voiced  the  sentiments 
of  his  fellows — "do  you  know,"  he  repeated,  with  great 
earnestness,  "that  if  it  were  not  for  the  legal  printing 
that  many  of  the  newspapers  could  not  exist?" 

"No,"  said  I  quietly,  "and  I  thank  you  for  the  informa 
tion,  for  now  I  shall  surely  press  the  bill  with  greater 
energy  in  the  double  interest  of  the  people." 

"We    know    what    you    say    is    true,"    continued    the 


324  MY   FRIEND    BILL. 

spokesman  ;  "but  if  you  press  your  measure  it  will  accom 
plish  no  good  and  do  us  great  harm  in  any  event.  We 
dare  not  vote  for  it,  as  thus  we  antagonize  the  'papers,' 
and  if  we  do  not  vote  for  it  we  antagonize  our  constit 
uents.  You  are  a  lawyer,  are  you  not?" 

"I  am  so  called,"  said  I. 

"Then  what  need  you  care  what  legal  printing  costs? 
You  don't  have  to  pay  the  bill." 

"I  am  a  lawyer,  'tis  true,  but  I  would  be  a  patriot  first." 

"Indeed  !"  with  a  sneer.  "Well,  young  man,  you  are 
greatly  out  of  place  up  here,  then,  and  we  don't  think 
you  will  return.  Eh,  boys?" 

"I  sincerely  trust  I  shall  not ;  but  while  I  am  here  I 
shall  do  my  duty  as  I  see  it,  and  my  bill  will  be  pressed 
if  it  get  but  my  own  vote ;"  and  when  I  did  press  it  to  a 
vote,  mine  was  the  only  one  it  received. 

No  pariah  was  ever  more  alone  than  I  during  the  re 
maining  weeks  of  the  session.  Even  the  pages  would 
have  turned  me  down. 

I  am  fortunately  devoid  of  all  sensitiveness  when  in 
the  line  of  duty,  and  this  ostracism  by  my  fellow-members 
was  rather  a  pleasant  sensation  to  me. 

Doubtless  the  people  for  whom  I  had  aimed  to  do  a 
service  think  of  me,  if  at  all,  as  anything  but  an  honest 
man — their  opinion  having  been  formed  for  them  by  the 
"papers,"  which  go  right  on  charging  them  "legal  rates." 

I  would  not  refuse  to  accord  justice,  however,  where 
it  is  merited,  and  will  say  that  on  most  public  matters 
these  same  papers  work  valiantly  for  the  general  good. 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

They  may  be  accounted  as  great,  but  greatness  alone  has 
never  yet  taken  the  place  of  contentment. 

Bill  and  Beatrice  have  long  since  been  married,  and, 
like  Edward  and  Anita,  are  living  in  their  own  mansion. 

Helen  is  no  longer  the  prattling  child,  but  the  young 
woman  just  entering  society.  She  is  even  more  beauti 
ful  than  was  her  promise  to  be. 

Her  childhood  wish  to  see  Highmont  has  often  been 
gratified,  for  with  Anita  and  Beatrice  she  has  spent 
many  a  summer  among  the  scenes  I  once  loved  so  dearly, 
and  revisit  with  such  delight. 

She  is  not  only  beautiful  in  face  and  form,  but  her  char 
acter  is  one  of  those  that  brighten  the  world  about  her. 
While  she  has  society  as  a  worshiper,  she  never  forgets 
those  who  know  little  of  joy.  Her  father  calls  her  the 
family  philanthropist,  and  allows  her  unlimited  means  to 
gratify  her  desire  for  doing  good,  yet  so  quietly  are  her 
deeds  done  that  few  aside  from  the  recipients  know  of 
them.  Those  few,  however,  are  never  idle.  They  ply 
her  with  begging  letters  for  all  possible  and  impossible 
purposes.  They  are  most  persistent  in  their  requests, 
which  many  times  amount  to  demands.  Investigation,  in 
some  instances,  proved  that  the  writers  really  live  off  the 
charitable,  who  are  touched  by  the  seeming  merit  of  the 
cases.  These  letter  beggars,  by  long  experience,  are  such 
adepts  they  could  almost  extract  gold  from  the  rocks. 

325 


326  MY  FRIEND   BILL. 

With  her  multiplicity  of  social  duties  and  her  charitable 
work,  her  time  was  so  taken  up  that  I  seldom  saw  her. 

I  don't  know  why,  but  I  soon  found  myself  wishing 
that  she  was  a  child  again,  that  I  might  be  "Mister 
Ruben"  as  of  old.  She  never  called  me  "Mister  Ruben" 
any  more.  I  felt  myself  drifting  away  from  her,  and 
when  I  occasionally  saw  her  in  society  she  was  so  sur 
rounded  by  the  younger  men  that  I  felt  a  return  of  that 
old  feeling  of  being  forgotten  by  the  children  who  had 
once  loved  me.  I  fain  would  withdraw  from  society,  but 
before  the  evening  was  over  she  would  always  come  to 
me  for  a  little  while  to  say  some  pleasantries. 

"Ruben,"  she  would  say,  "it  is  so  restful  to  talk  with 
you.  One  does  not  have  to  be  so  precise."  No,  nor 
would  one  have  to  be  to  an  inferior. 

Was  it  a  compliment  she  was  paying  me,  or  did  she 
think  of  me  as  a  person  for  whom  she  had  no  desire  or 
care  to  please?  I  would  leave  the  house  long  before  the 
end  of  the  reception,  and  quite  resolve  that  I  would  ac 
cept  no  more  invitations,  but  a  something — I  know  not 
what — would  ever  cause  me  to  break  that  resolution. 

If  I  were  conversing  with  a  lady  with  any  degree  of 
interest,  Helen  would  thereafter  show  in  her  manner  more 
than  in  what  she  would  say  that  she  was  not  pleased 
writh  that  particular  lady.  I  could  but  silently  note  this 
in  her,  and  wonder  at  it,  for  she  seemed  so  free  from 
dislike  for  any  one. 

Why  should  she  care  to  whom  I  was  agreeable  ?  I  was 
now  but  little  to  her,  and  with  her  widening  circle  of 
friends,  was  fast  growing  less. 

She  had  been  in  society  a  year  when  a  cousin  of  Anita 
came  to  visit  America.  He  was  very  callow,  this  cousin, 
but,  to  compensate  for  manly  bearing,  he  was  an  earl, 
which  in  the  minds  of  too  many  condoned  all  else.  The 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


327 


pigmy  with  a  title  too  often  outweighs  every  manly  qual 
ity  in  the  native  American.  He  may  lack  every  gift  that 
marks  the  true  man,  and  yet  be  held  in  greater  esteem 
than  the  American  with  them  all.  This  title  worship  has 
been  the  cause  of  many  a  wasted  life,  and  yet  new 
"moths"  are  ever  being  dazzled  by  the  light  and  led  away, 
wearing  a  coronet  on  the  head  while  the  joy  they  had 
hoped  for  never  reaches  the  heart.  They  may  be  ac 
counted  as  great,  but  greatness  alone  has  never  yet  taken 
the  place  of  contentment. 

ft  was  not  long  until  it  could  be  seen  that  the  earl  had 
made  his  choice,  and  that  choice  was  Helen.  Why  should 
this  have  been  aught  to  me?  I  must  have  known  that 
she  would  some  time  marry  and  drop  out  of  my  life,  and 
forget  her  "Mister  Ruben"  of  childhood;  but  yet  I  felt 
it  deeply  when  this  time  seemed  to  have  come.  I  with 
drew  entirely  from  everything  social. 

I  had  been  successful  even  beyond  my  hopes.  The 
world  had  called  me  a  great  lawyer,  a  great  financier ;  but 
this  did  not  bring  me  any  happiness.  I  found  no  joy 
in  a  single  personal  success,  save  when  some  other  had 
been  benefited.  I  had  wealth,  but  I  saw  many  a  poor 
man  who  seemed  so  much  more  content  that  I  envied 
him. 

I  sought  to  break  this  feeling  in  travel,  and  spent  a 
year  abroad,  seeing  all  the  places  of  interest  in  the  old 
world  ;  but  returned  with  a  heavier  heart  than  when  I 
started.  I  visited  my  old  home,  but  the  places  I  had 
once  loved  seemed  to  have  lost  all  charm  for  me.  I 
came  back  to  the  city  and  sought  in  my  work  the  relief 
I  had  failed  to  find  in  recreation,  but  in  vain. 

Was  this  the  reward  of  success?  Was  this  my  com 
pensation  for  years  of  struggle  to  reach  that  pinnacle 
on  which  I  had  hoped  to  find  true  happiness?  I  would 


328  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

seek  out  the  friends  of  long  ago  and  live  over  with  them 
the  days  when  life  was  so  free  from  care.  But  where 
were  these  friends?  I  sought  for  them,  but  found  no 
friends.  I  saw  many  of  those  I  had  known  when  I  first 
came  to  the  city,  and  more  whom  I  had  met  during  my 
years  at  law  school,  but  none  of  them  seemed  to  me  as 
I  had  known  them.  They  were  all  changed.  When  we 
had  exhausted  the  merest  commonplaces  our  conversa 
tion  was  at  an  end.  There  was  a  barrier  through  which 
we  could  not  penetrate.  I  asked  one  of  them  who  had, 
in  the  old  days,  been  a  very  dear  friend,  "Why  are  you  so 
changed  from  the  merry-hearted  Jack  I  knew  long  ago  ?'' 

"It  is  you  who  are  changed,"  said  Jack,  "not  I.  Good 
fortune  has  led  you  away  into  smooth  paths.  The  world 
has  accorded  you  a  place  in  the  first  ranks ;  it  does  you 
homage  for  great  success !  You  forget  the  early  strug 
gles  in  your  years  of  continued  prosperity,  and  now  when 
you  see  the  old  friends  who  have  been  living  on  in  the 
same  dull  routine,  you  ask,  'Why  have  you  changed?'  ' 

"And  yet,"  I  asked,  "why  should  those  whom  once  I 
loved  drift  away  from  me,  and  never  seek  me  out?  Do 
they  no  longer  regard  me?  Have  I  clone  aught  that 
would  estrange  me  from  them?  Can  they  forget  the 
ties  that  once  bound  us  in  friendship?'' 

"Ruben,  this  is  a  strange  world.  The  higher  one  goes 
up,  in  the  temple  of  fame,  the  further  one  gets  away 
from  his  less  successful  friend.  The  friend  may  regard 
him,  and  watch  his  ascent  with  no  envy,  but  with  pride ; 
yet  he  feels  that  to  presume  on  the  old  friendship  is  to 
intrude,  and  he  quietly  drifts  away,  and  when  in  after 
years  they  by  some  chance  meet,  each  thinks  the  other 
has  changed.  They  part,  and  possibly  see  each  other  no 
more." 

Was  this  true  ?     Must  I  feel  that  those  whom  mv  heart 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


329 


had  called  friends  had  dropped  out  of  my  life,  and  that 
I  must  hereafter  wander  on  alone,  with  none  save  those 
who  are  bound  to  me  in  a  business  or  professional  way? 
I  cried  out  at  the  curse  of  success !  Would  that  I  might 
go  back  to  the  old  days — to  the  old  joys !  The  people 
we  meet  beyond  the  bounds  of  youth  are  seldom  friends 
of  the  heart.  They  may  admire  our  ability,  some  quality 
of  manner  or  intellect,  but  there  is  little  of  affection.  We 
meet,  admire,  but  seldom  love  these  friends  of  later  life. 
They  may  excel  the  old  friends  in  all  things  good  or 
great,  but  they  can  never  be  bound  to  us  by  those  sweet, 
heart  tendrils  which  twined  us  to  the  friends  of  long  ago. 

Here  was  I,  scarce  thirty  years  old,  and  yet  I  seemed 
standing  alone.  I  had  outrun  in  life's  race  my  boyhood 
mates  whom  I  would  yet  love,  but  my  success  had  taken 
me  out  of  their  world.  On  the  other  hand,  this  success 
had  surrounded  me  with  people  who  paid  homage  to  the 
position  I  held,  and  who  would  have  done  the  same 
homage  to  that  position  held  by  another  and  forgotten 
me  had  reverses  lost  it  to  me. 

I  had  not  even  the  pleasure  of  a  material  want.  My 
means  were  so  great  that  all  needs  were  supplied  ere  it 
had  become  a  pleasure  to  want  for  them.  Oh,  the  void 
in  my  heart,  which  the  mines  of  earth  could  not  fill ! 

I  analyzed  my  life,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  I  knew  my 
condition,  but  this  did  not  lighten  the  load. 

It  was  long  before  I  would  admit  to  myself  the  real 
cause.  I  could  not  believe  my  heart  would  serve  me  so 
ill — to  love  that  which  could  never  be  mine.  "Never  be 
mine!"  rang  back  the  mental  echo.  "Be  mine!"  it  re 
verberated.  "Mine !"  it  ended.  Oh,  that  this  end  might 
be  true!  And  yet  I  dared  not  allow  myself  to  hope  it, 
even  had  I  dared  to  hope  so  rich  a  consummation. 

I  lived  in  the  past.     Often  I  found  myself  repeating 


330 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


the  words  of  little  Helen ;  but  never  could  I  make  them 
seem  the  words  of  Helen  the  grown  lady.  "I  will  be 
your  Helen  forever  and  ever,  and  never  forget  you.  I 
will  love  you  always."  How  sweet  these  sentences, 
though  spoken  years  ago  by  a  child ! 

The  earl  was  now  a  constant  visitor  at  the  home  of 
Mr.  DeHertbern.  Society  connected  his  name  with 
Helen  seemingly  as  a  matter  of  course.  In  the  early 
summer  he  returned  to  England,  as  all  said,  to  arrange 
for  the  coming  event,  which  "event"  was  to  take  from 
out  my  world  the  only  one  I  had  ever  truly  loved ! 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

Is  the  stream  less  strong  or  its  zvaters  less  pure  for  the 
rocks  over  which  it  has  been  dashed  in  its  course? 
Some  of  its  life  may  have  been  beaten  into  mist,  but 
see  all  along  the  way  the  ferns  and  flowers  ivhich 
have  been  given  life  by  that  mist. 

Shortly  after  the  earl's  departure  Beatrice,  Anita  and 
Helen,  with  the  children,  went  on  their  yearly  visit  to 
Highmont,  which  had  been  brought  much  nearer  to  the 
outside  \vorld  by  a  railroad  which  I  had  built — more  in 
sentiment  for  the  old  home  than  for  an  investment. 

The  week  following,  Bill  came  into  my  office  one  day 
holding  a  letter  he  had  just  received  from  Beatrice. 

"Listen  to  this,"  he  began :  '  'We  will  be  looking  for 
you  out  t\vo  days  after  the  receipt  of  this  letter/  " 

"Well."  said  I,  "of  course  you  will  not  disappoint 
them." 

"You  mean  we  will  not  disappoint  them,"  quietly  re 
plied  Bill. 

"Why,"  I  asked,  "is  Edward  going  with  you?" 

"No,  you  dull  boy.  I  mean  that  you  and  I  are  going. 
We  are  both  'looked  for.'  " 

"Bill,"  1  protested,  "I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you,  but 
it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to  go  at  this  time." 

"Oh,  it  is  not  me  you  will  disappoint,  you  stupid  fellow. 
Look  at  this  postscript.  Do  you  recognize  the  writer?" 

In   a   daint     hand   were   these   words :     "Oh,    Mister 


332 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


Ruben,  be  your  old  self  again,  and  come  home."  There 
was  no  name — no  name  was  needed.  I  knew  the  hand 
that  had  penned  that  request,  and  quietly  said:  "Bill,  I 
will  go." 

"Be  your  old  self  again !"  Had  she,  too,  noted  the 
change?  How  could  she,  when  she  had  seen  me  so 
seldom  since  her  entrance  into  society?  Before  that 
time  we  were  very  much  together,  always  as  man  and 
child ;  but  since  the  world  of  society  had  claimed  her, 
I  had  quietly  dropped  away  and  remembered  her  only 
as  the  child  Helen.  And  for  the  first  time  in  years,  I 
was  again  "Mister  Ruben."  What  a  volume  of  sweet 
memories  those  two  words  brought  back  to  me !  I  looked 
about  and  wondered  why  the  world  seemed  so  much 
brighter.  The  load  on  my  heart  which  had  ever  grown 
heavier  as  the  months  went  by,  seemed  all  at  once  to 
grow  lighter,  and  everything  about  me  changed  as  though 
by  a  touch  of  magic.  This  happy  feeling  was  too  much 
of  joy  to  last.  Doubts  and  questions  began  flooding  my 
mind  until  I  almost  regretted  that  I  had  promised  to 
go  with  him.  "Why  does  she  want  you  to  come  home? 
She  has  been  there  a  week,  and  already  she  is  tired  of  the 
monotony,  and  would  even  have  so  stupid  a  fellow  as 
you  to  amuse  her  !  Yes,  Ruben — 'Mister  Ruben' — go 
home  and  while  away  the  time  until  the  earl's  return, 
and  then  you  will  be  of  no  more  interest  to  her.  Go 
home !" 

Soon  I  was  even  more  despondent  than  before.  The 
apples  of  joy  seemed  to  turn  to  bitter  fruit,  as  the  doubts 
and  questions  filled  my  brain.  Would  I  break  my  prom 
ise  to  Bill  and  again  refuse  to  go?  No,  I  will  keep  my 
promise,  though  my  heart  be  broken  by  the  going.  I  will 
know  my  fate,  though  that  fate  be  my  undoing ! 

I  shall  ever  carry  with  me  the  picture  I  saw  at  the 


MY   FRIEND   BILL. 


333 


station  at  Highmont  that  bright  June  morning,  as  Bill 
and  i  looked  from  the  car-door.  The  long,  winding 
street,  set  against  the  mountains  in  the  distance;  this 
street  bordered  by  houses  that  ever  grew  smaller  on 
each  of  my  returns  from  the  city,  while  in  the  immediate 
foreground  were  my  old  father  and  mother,  with  Pauline 
and  Evelyn  May,  now  grown  to  womanhood,  surrounded 
by  Anita,  Beatrice  and  Helen,  all  with  bright,  smiling 
faces  turned  toward  us  with  such  a  warm  welcome,  was 
a  picture  that  could  hang  forever  in  the  choicest  nook 
of  the  heart's  gallery. 

I  tried  to  greet  all  alike,  but  somehow  the  greetings 
were  more  or  less  hurried  until  I  had  reached  Helen,  who 
had  arranged  to  be  the  last,  when  we  wandered  off  to 
gether,  I  almost  forgetting  that  she  had  not  come  alone, 
while  she  seemed  in  her  happy  spirits  to  forget  for  the 
moment  that  a  certain  earl  has  ever  existed. 

Oh,  the  joys  of  those  days  at  Highmont!  Little  ex 
cursions  were  taken  to  every  point  of  interest  for  miles 
around.  The  evenings  were  filled  in  with  innumerable 
>  entertainments,  in  which  I  always  aimed  to  have  the 
village  friends  participate.  I  brought  companies  of 
actors  from  the  city  and  gave  these  good  people  what 
they  had  never  before  seen — real  plays.  And  yet  many 
of  them  said  that  ''Robbins'  Exhibition"  far  surpassed 
them  all,  showing,  after  all,  that  excellence  is  only  the 
point  of  view  from  which  it  is  taken. 

Neither  lielen  nor  I  had  once  spoken  the  earl's  name, 
or  even  made  mention  of  him — she,  no  doubt,  from  a 
delicacy,  and  I  lest  my  joys  would  come  to  an  end  by 
confession  from  her. 

Two  weeks  had  passed  so  swiftly  along,  freighted  with 
their  hourly  pleasures,  that  T  had  scarce  noted  the  time, 
when  there  came  a  day  that  stands  out  and  beyond  all  the 


334  MY   FRIEND   BILL. 

other  days  of  my  life  till  then. 

The  occasion  was  a  drive  of  some  ten  miles  to  the 
Cascades,  the  one  really  romantic  spot  of  all  our  country 
side. 

A  little  rivulet  starting  on  the  very  mountain  top  was 
fed  by  innumerable  springs  along  the  course  as  it  turned 
down  a  deep  gorge  in  the  cliffs,  until  it  was  soon  a 
dashing,  furious  torrent  as  it  rushed  on  to  the  quiet  valley 
below.  All  along  its  tortuous  course  was  cascade  after 
cascade,  and  no  two  alike.  Some  sheer  leaps  of  a  hundred 
feet  to  the  rocks  below,  others  of  lesser  fall,  but  all  full  of 
wondrous  beauty.  Here  and  there  were  deep  pools  hol 
lowed  out  by  the  endless  ages  through  which  the  stream 
had  flowed,  and  in  these  pools  sported  the  beautiful  moun 
tain  trout. 

Never  before  had  the  Cascades  seemed  so  full  of 
grandeur  as  on  that  day.  The  rhythm  of  the  falling 
water  seemed  to  be  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  music 
in  my  heart.  There  was  music  in  my  heart,  and  yet  I 
dared  not  analyze  it.  I  was  happy  because  Helen  was 
near  me.  She  might  not  be  for  long,  but  her  presence 
numbed  the  future  and  for  the  time  I  was  content. 

After  the  picnic  dinner,  spread  on  a  smooth  plateau 
half-way  up  the  mountain  side,  we  wandered  off  from 
the  rest  of  the  party,  Helen  and  I,  "to  gather  ferns  and 
wild  flowers,"  but  soon  forgot  our  mission  as  we  seated 
ourselves  in  the  shade  of  a  great  overhanging  oak  in 
one  of  the  few  quiet  spots  along  the  water  course. 

"How  like  one's  life,"  said  I,  "is  this  stream !  It  begins 
small  and  uneventful,  runs  along  on  a  high  plane,  gathers 
strength  as  it  goes,  but  ere  long  it  begins  to  ruffle  and 
break  into  little  riffles,  swirls  over  obstructions,  falls  away 
and  dashes  itself  on  the  rocks  below,  only  to  gather  itself 
together  for  more  precipitous  plunges  further  on !" 


The  occasion  was  a  drive  of  some  ten  miles,  to  the  Cascades,  tin- 
one  romantic  spot  of  all  our  country  side. — I'age  .f.l). 


MY  FRIEND   BILL. 


335 


I  shall  never  forget  the  sweet,  quiet  reply  Helen  made 
to  my  impassioned  simile.  "Ruben,  look  away  down 
there  below.  See  this  same  stream — here  so  rough  and 
boisterous,  there  so  smooth  and  placid — as  it  flows  away 
toward  the  great  ocean.  Is  the  stream  less  strong  or  the 
waters  less  pure  for  the  rocks  over  which  it  has  been 
dashed  in  its  course?  Some  of  its  life  may  have  been 
beaten  into  mist,  but  see  all  along  the  way  the  ferns  and 
flowers  which  have  been  given  life  by  that  mist.  That 
life  loses  naught  which  contributes  to  other  life." 

"Yes ;  but,  Helen,"  I  replied,  "some  streams  and  some 
lines  dash  on  to  the  end.  There  is  no  rest,  no  quiet 
eddies,  no  smooth  ending." 

"That  may  be  true,  Ruben;  but  many  a  life  is  wasted 
over  rough  and  tortuous  ways,  where  a  smooth  course 
might  have  been  more  easily  taken  and  all  the  rocks 
avoided,  and  the  end  reached  in  peace." 

Could  she  know  what  she  was  saying?  Would  I  not 
have  gladly  escaped  the  precipitous  rocks  over  which  I 
had  been  carried  during  the  years  since  she  was  my  own 
little  Helen?  Could  I  choose  my  way  when  another  held 
the  course  I  would  take  ?  Xo,  mine  was  a  life  not  fitted 
to  the  one  of  peace  of  which  she  so  sweetly  spoke.  Look 
ing  up  at  me,  she  said  almost  abruptly  and  quite  inno 
cently  :  "Ruben,  I  have  watched  your  course  for  a  long 
while,  and  have  felt  that  your  life  was  saddened,  for  some 
cause,  and  now  in  your  simile  of  the  stream  I  see  it 
clearly ;  but  why  should  your  life  be  sad — you,  who 
have  met  with  success  rarely  attained  by  one  of  your 
years?  You  have  gained  wealth  almost  beyond  desire; 
few  have  ever  reached  your  position  in  the  law  so  early 
in  life,  while  your  friends  are  legion.  You,  above  all 
others,  should  be  the  happiest  of  men !" 

Oh,  that  I  dared  tell  her  the  cause  and  know  my  fate ! 


336  MY  FRIEND  BILL. 

But,  no ;  T  would  go  on  to  the  end,  was  my  thought  when 
she  continued:  "Some  have  honors  without  merit,  titles 
which  they  have  never  earned,  position  which  birth  has 
thrust  upon  them,  while  you  have  nobly  earned  both 
honors  and  position,  and,  as  I  believe,  you  care  not  for 
titles.'' 

"Titles !"  Why  should  she  speak  so  lightly  of  them, 
when  so  soon  she  would  bear  one?  I  could  not  resist 
saying:  "Helen,  you  surprise  me  in  thus  speaking  of 
titles,  when  the  world  has  already  connected  your  name 
with  one  which  it  says  is  soon  to  be  yours !" 

"Oh,  Ruben!  are  you,  too,  one  of  that  foolish  world? 
I  could  not  have  believed  this  of  you,  Ruben !" 

I  scarce  knew  what  I  was  saying  in  my  surprise  and 
joy,  when  I  exclaimed:  "What!  are  you  not  going  to 
marry  the  earl  ?" 

"Marry  the  earl !  I  marry  the  earl !  Oh,  'Mister 
Ruben !'  you  never  believed  that  story,  did  you?"  and  her 
merry  laugh  was  so  hearty  that  for  the  first  time  in  years 
she  seemed  the  child  again.  I  clasped  her  hand — I  could 
not  help  it — as  I  asked :  "Then  you  are  free  to  have  me 
tell  you  why  my  life  has  been  saddened?" 

"Free  as  the  child  whose  life  you  once  saved." 

"Then,  Helen,  it  was  because  I  felt  that  I  had  lost 
forever  the  only  one  I  have  ever  truly  loved — that  child 
whose  life  I  saved !  May  I  ever  protect,  as  my  own, 
that  life?" 

"Ruben,  I  will  be  your  Helen  forever  and  ever,  and 
will  never  forget  you.  I  will  love  you  always !" 


A     000  088  658     o 


